


Bootleggers

by shingekicorn



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, FANTASY PROHIBITION AU EVERYONE, M/M, Multi, THE AU NO ONE WANTED BUT YOU'RE GETTING ANYWAY, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 39
Words: 80,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekicorn/pseuds/shingekicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A French wizard, a werewolf, and a voodoo master all join the bootlegging business.</p><p>Or: Three idiots who aren't exactly human cause mayhem in The Big Easy as they try to worm their way around federal law. And maybe fool around a little on the side. A collection dedicated to lawbreaking and polyamory</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Introduction: or: The Chapter That Significantly Lacks Romance

**Author's Note:**

> On paper this sounds like the dumbest thing ever written, but I have NEEDS for my ot3 and I'm gonna push forward. 
> 
> The idea of the fantasy prohibition isn't actually one I thought of all by myself. I've seen the concept tossed around in a kickstarter for a comic and I always thought it was neat. And then I figured, why not apply it to my favorite ot3? And in a city I've actually been in and are familiar with? And then I went and wrote like 4 installments at once and now I have enough material to publish this without worry. 
> 
> On with the show

 

On January 10, 1920, the National Prohibition began.

The Prohibition put a ban on things considered sinful, shameful, and harmful to society. Groups came out of nowhere to voice their support, saying the nation needed to put a stop to its gluttony. They said drunkards needed to stop using their money to support evil businesses. They said hardworking Americans needed to stop being blindsided by things that led them off the path of goodness.

So, on January 10, 1920, the United States of America banned the wholesale production of magical items.

Sounds a tad unexpected, doesn't it?

The Prohibition banned more than just that. Alcohol, certain drugs, and medicines—things hotly debated for months in Congress before they finally agreed on a baseline. Magic was one of the things they seemed adamant about banning. To everyone who wasn't human, it seemed illogical, stupid, downright hateful—and it was. The government couldn't exactly ban it from existing but they could damage the world that revolved around it. History between the human and the inhuman had always been tense. Especially in America.

Maybe it was when the Spaniards landed and the Natives surrounded them with forest spirits. Or when a colony of wizards set up camp right after the British did. Or when the Aztecs used their dragons against invaders. Really, there were multiple instances. But you could read all about it in history textbooks; the subjects of human and inhuman relationships were always covered in general social studies and history.

Well, covered from the perspective of the humans. They had a terrible tendency to skew things in their favor.

Like now, as they celebrate the purifying of American culture while ignoring the fact they're effectively fucking over another culture into poverty.

This was what had turned Jean Kirschstein's life into a little bit of a living hell.

It was horrible enough when his family left their lovely home in France. They had left their cozy village, their safe haven away from public eyes, for Hell on Earth. New Orleans. Mother had tried to soothe his angry fifteen year old demeanor _(“It's for the company, dear. Business is booming—”)_ but it didn't stop him from detesting the swampy air and slurred French of the bayou.

It was horrible enough when he had to attend a preparatory school filled with ignorant humans who thought his status made him exotic _(“I didn't know one of you could even make grades that high!”)_. If it wasn't for his private tutor at home, he would have lost it and blown the entire school to bits.

It was _horrible enough_ when he set foot on American soil only to find out that the supposed melting pot that was The Land of the Free was a crock of shit to the highest degree _(“Your kind doesn't belong in first class. I don't care what your ticket says—”)_  It was all lies. It was all horrible lies. Back home there had never been any trouble. He could live his life without worry. Here he had started to lie about his status and claim he was human just so passerby wouldn't gawk like a child at a circus.

But this was just a new nail in the coffin. He should just move back to France and be done with it.

His family's business wouldn't be too affected. The company did have a potions wing, but that wasn't the only thing sold. There were production lines for clothes, radios, food—he was sure they could keep their stupid manor in the stupid garden district.

The issue for him was that now his ideal career was out of his reach.

What was a wizard going to do when his greatest craft was illegal?

Apparently waste his time attending college for a business degree he didn't want and stare at the wall for hours. That was how he had spent most of his time since the Prohibition began. Occasionally he threw a ball at his bedroom wall until the maid came to tell him to stop.

That was what he was currently doing, actually. There's a spot on the wall where the constant hits were beginning to dent the paint and Jean found it useful as a target.

 

_thunk_

 

_thunk_

 

_thunk_

 

_thunk_

 

_thunk—_

 

_CRASH_

Jean blanches and eyes the expensive looking lamp that had shattered against the hardwood floor. He'd never liked it much anyway.

A tentative knock sounds from the door. “Master Kirschstein?”

Jean sweeps the lamp under his desk with his foot. “It was nothing. I'll clean it up—”

“Sir, there are people here to see you.”

Jean pauses, ceasing his foot sweeping. He didn't have any idea who would be around to see him. He didn't have many friends in his college classes—he had never told them where he lived anyway—and all of his relatives were in France. He opens the door to stare down at the scared maid wringing her hands in worry. “Did they state their business?”

“They, um…” The maid glances up and down the hall, taking a deep breath before meeting his eyes. “They are… _affiliated_ with your business, sir.”

Jean nods once.

The words “affiliated with your business” never meant they were here to actually talk about business.

Jean straightens up, rolls his sleeves up to the elbow, checks in the mirror that he is somewhat presentable, and then opens the door fully to step out. The maid bows her head and allows him to pass. It takes a short walk down the hall and a dash down the stairs to finally see the disruption standing in the foyer.

Said _disruptions_ were eyeing the light displays and seemed to be calculating their cost.

The first is the one that catches Jean's attention the most. He's pale, for one. He almost matches the marble columns framing the doorway. Pale skin with neatly parted dark hair and a cloak twice as dark covering his body. He meets Jean's eyes before he ever reaches the foyer and the tense expression makes Jean’s fists clench.

His fists unclench when he finally makes it down and realizes the man is also incredibly short.

The second—taller than his companion and a good three times darker—was wandering around in loose circles, shaggy chocolate hair whipping around with every turn of the head. He lacks a cloak and sports a very loose shirt tucked into equally loose trousers. Those were tucked into boots Jean could see mud _caked_ to. He hopes this idiot didn't track it all over the floor.

“Gentlemen.” Jean keeps his voice level. He knows formalities count for far too much in this town. The short one softly scoffs but bows his head respectfully in turn. The companion notices they had finally been joined and snaps to attention. Jean is startled to discover the companion had scars trailing down the right side of his face. Like he had gotten into a fight with something savage. “If you're here to see my father—”

“No, we came for you. You _are_ Jean Kirschstein, right?” The short one kept his tone strong, matter of fact, and didn't hesitate to stare Jean in the eye. Jean stares back and notes the dark circles on the man's face. He finds it odd the short man lacks an accent. After years of the same southern drawl hearing anything different is a shock.

“Yes.”

“My name is Levi Ackerman.” The cloak parts and an equally black clothed arm extends for a handshake. Leather gloves also seem to be included in his odd choice in wardrobe. Jean wonders how this man isn't sweating to death. It was the start of a Louisiana summer, for God’s sake. “This is my companion, Eren. Say hello, Eren.”

Eren grunts and gives a halfhearted wave, face focusing intently on an ornate statue next to the umbrella stand. Levi shakes his head before returning his attention to Jean. “I'd like to talk business with you.”

“I'm not involved in Kirschstein Co., sir. My father leads the company himself.”

“Not that business.”

Jean's eyes narrow. “I don't have any other business, sir. I'm afraid you came here for nothing.”

“Untrue. You were a student of Dot Pixis, who excelled in cloaking magic and the practical mythic arts.”

Jean freezes, eyes stuck to the stranger who had revealed something he never told anyone. He never had the chance to pursue his talents further; Pixis was out of a job thanks to the government. Jean couldn't have his cover blown or his college would—

“You need to leave. I'm not interested in anything you have to say. Goodnight.” He turns on his heel and starts for the stairs, surprised he had remained somewhat polite. He couldn't go around announcing what he was now. His talent was illegal. He could be arrested. He could ruin his life just by doing a simple trick. He needed to blend in, be normal, be like everyone else

The intruders in his home didn't even budge. Once Jean's foot hit the stairs Levi spoke once more. 

“What if I told you that you could put your powers to real use? Not hide what you are for the rest of your life?”

Jean's foot hovers above the next step.

“We represent a group who thinks the government’s treatment of our culture is hateful and unnecessary, and we would like to change that for the fine citizens of this city.” His voice tightens at “fine citizens.” Everyone knew that was a joke— “How would you feel about keeping the culture alive by working with us?”

Jean stares at the plush carpeting on the stairs. The paisley flowers seemed to mock him. The oak banister grew clammy under his hand.

He turns and slowly makes his way back to the guests. He refuses to meet their eyes until he's face to face. “Maybe now we should move to the sitting room for discussion.”

Levi's mouth twitches minutely.

“I agree. Eren, stop staring at the statue's tits and follow me—”

Jean sends a _look_ at the maid, telling her to lock the door and keep quiet if she wants to keep her job.

Inwardly, he prays he wasn't making a terrible choice.


	2. The First Day: or: I Do Not Howl At the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean begins his first job and discovers his coworkers are even less human than originally thought. 
> 
> or
> 
> The boys finally all share a room and the real story can begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me updating on an actual schedule, how nice. -laughs nervously and side eyes other fanfic I haven't updated in weeks-
> 
> Big thanks to my editor Codi, who edits this stuff even when college kicks her ass. 
> 
> The official schedule for this fic is an update every Monday, since I have everything up to chapter 7 written, BUT we might have an early update this week since I'm on Spring Break and very very bored.

 

Eren had experienced a lot in his short 20 years of life.

He had, in his boyhood, witnessed births with his mother and miracles with his father. He had seen changelings turn into birds and bears and show just how strong nature was. He had seen the aging healers of his mother’s people perform feats with more meaning than any cheap magician.

Nothing really compares to the sheer  _amusement_  he feels watching the new guy.

Jean, he said his name was. Heir to Kirschstein Co., a company that dabbled in as many products as it possibly could, wizard of a long and proud bloodline, and as of hearing him speak, Eren was amused to discover Jean was also a snooty Frenchman who tried too hard to speak perfect English.

Yes, he finds Jean  _very_ entertaining.

Levi always picked Eren as his tag along for outside jobs. He claims Eren annoys him the least. So whenever Levi left to discuss the new partnership with the Kirschstein heir, Eren always got to go. In the one week since their first meeting, he's managed to learn a lot.

The first being that Jean is highly suspicious of his own people. Which is weird. Eren had been in Levi's company for seven (Was it six? Probably seven. Time flew so fast.) years and he found being around others who bore the same struggle was more comforting than pretending to be normal. And Jean presented himself as a normal member of society. Always with “Yes sir’s” and “No sir’s” and never using a flick of the wrist to refill the tea—always calling a maid to do it. He sends suspicious glances at Eren from the corner of his eye. He stares at Levi as if he was trying to probe his mind and came face to face with a brick wall. He never divulges personal information and remains perfectly professional.

The second thing is that Jean obviously was born and raised higher class. Eren could see it practically tattooed on his forehead. He avoids touching Eren entirely. He sticks his  _pinky_ up when he drinks, even if it's just slight. He eyes Eren's work boots with disdain. He talks using formal words, in dialect that sounded too odd compared to the southern drawl Eren is used to hearing. All his clothes were pressed and new and didn't look like they'd seen a speck of dirt in their lives.

The third is that it was _too easy_ to annoy him. Leave your teacup tilted a certain way and he would stare at it. Leave a scuff on the floor and he would cringe. Bob your leg as he talked and he would glare at you. This was the thing that seemed to suck up most of Eren's time. Eren continued testing Jean’s limits. The limit turned out to be blowing raspberries, as spare spittle had touched Levi, and Levi whipped around to slap Eren so fast Eren’s head still spun.

The fourth thing is that Jean is awfully ignorant of what the world outside his bubble was like. But Eren supposes all rich people are like that.

It's more and more apparent the longer Jean stays outside of his house.

Case in point being the day he finally put on “working clothes”—a new pressed shirt and trousers. Maybe the suspenders were supposed to be the working part. If Jean thought he was fooling anyone, he's mistaken since everything still looks so unnaturally clean—and made his way to the Ford Levi kept immaculately polished in the driveway.

“Sooo…where  _is_  this place?” Jean leans forward, pointedly avoiding touching Eren and staring at the buzzed side of Levi's head.

“Outside the city,” is Levi's clipped answer.

“How far?” Jean presses.

“Far enough.”

“Am I going to get  _any_  answers or are you just going to tell me to sit down and shut up?”

“Eren.” Levi signals, tapping the steering wheel with his thumb as he punches the gas, sending Jean flying back into his seat as Eren lets out a chuckle. New fact about Jean: he has obviously never witnessed driving that was on the manic scale like Levi's. It could classify as its own thrill ride.

The scarred boy turns to smile at Jean over the seat, holding in a snort at the way Jean clutches the seat with the same ferocity a nervous housecat would. “Don't get your panties in a twist, Nancy. We're going to a safe place. You'll be home in time for dinner.”

Jean frowns and glares.

Eren smiled even wider and bared his abnormally sharp canines as a taunt.

Jean, eyes widening at the sight, shrinks back further in his seat. “…you're a  _werewolf_?”

At his shrinking, Eren and Levi exchange a  _look_  in the front seat before Eren frowns down at the wizard. Levi's jaw tightens and he discreetly watches Jean from the mirror in between swerving through other cars. “Yeah. Why, you allergic to fur or something?”

“ I thought werewolves… I dunno, don't you usually…like…live in the woods? In caves? Or something?” Jean's hand slowly comes to run through his hair, pushing away short bangs in nervousness.

Eren lets out a snort that sounds too harsh to be joking. “And why the fuck would I live there? Sounds terrible. No electricity, no shower—”

“No shitter. You'd have to pop a squat where you sleep.” Levi supplies, taking the car into a hard turn to avoid a clogged lane of traffic and shoving all occupants to the side. Jean slams into the wall like a limp doll while Eren leans into the turn with ease. He doesn't even pause while talking.

“Yeah, and that. You ain't got a lick of common sense, do ya?”

“I have sense!” Jean shoots while detaching his face from the window.

Eren is not amused, one thick eyebrow rising as he watches Jean rub the red spot forming on his cheek. “Ya actually thought werewolves, who spend most of their time as people, live in the damn dirty woods in caves.”

“That's not my fault!” Jean tears his eyes away from Eren's large, blue-green  _destructor rays_ to cross his arms and look out the window. They were passing an awful lot of water. For a moment, Jean wonders exactly how far out this place was. “No one ever talks about you. You're usually—”

“We're usually savage creatures whose entire lives are based around the cycle of the moon, am I right?” Eren snorts. “You actually believe that garbage?”

There was a minute of silence in the car as the wizard thought his words over carefully. Eren drums his fingers on the seat. Levi continues to pretend to ignore the both of them and focus on not ramming the car into a tree as he turns off the main way and onto a smaller road.

The silence is broken by a sound of discontent in the backseat as Jean finally found words. “I don't know.” Jean crosses his legs, then uncrosses. He pointedly avoids looking at the wolf in the front seat. “Never met one before, so…”

“You two can continue your race debate later.” Levi cuts the conversation off by slamming the brakes, propelling both boys forward with a jerk. “We're here.”

 

* * *

 

The place isn't so much a place as it is a sprawling plantation property.

A sprawling plantation property that made the Kirschstein home in the Garden District look like a shack.

This fact makes Eren smirk to himself the entire walk up the driveway, and his smirk turns into an evil chuckle as they open the front doors. Behind him, Jean lets out a “What the HELL—?” as the door shuts and he is allowed a full long look at the inside.

Business is booming. Varied banging and booming sounds come from upstairs, people yelling to each other from banisters and hallways and balconies, and even more people, some with visible horns or scales or wings _,_ were running around carrying books and jars and what looked like live creatures—

Levi unties his cloak and removes his gloves, handing them off to someone who had emerged from the bustling crowd to whisper in his ear and hand off a file. He beckons the two boys to follow with his fingers and the small party moves to a stairway that isn't clogged. Eren has to yank Jean by a suspender when the two-toned wizard becomes distracted by the dullahan running a crate to the backdoor. Jean glares and Eren allows the suspender to snap back on his chest with a loud  _thwip_.

Levi leads them down more hallways, each one with at least one person running like something is about to explode—and at least one explosion actually did go off outside, if that  _boom_  was what it sounds like—before coming to stop outside a red mahogany door.

He doesn't even bother to knock before kicking the door open, and Eren grabs Jean by the suspenders again to tug him inside.

Inside, the blond behind the desk lifts his head from stacks of books, smiling as Levi slamsthe file in his hand down on top of his work.

“Ah, Mister Kirschstein. Thank you for bringing him in.” Eren releases the suspender with another  _thwip_ , leaving Jean to rub his chest as the shorter man commandeers attention by clearing his throat. “Levi, I believe Hanji wanted to talk to you about the supply runs before today was over.”

Levi duigs his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I'll see them next then. Am I done going out for the day?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“Good.” He nods once to Eren on his way out, who lazily waves goodbye with a smile.

“Hello, Mister Kirschstein. My name is Erwin Smith, I own the group you've decided to partner with.” Erwin stands and leaves the confines of his desk, rounding to shake Jean's hand before leaning back against the edge. He somehow manages to avoid toppling a pile of books that seem to be teetering too far to the left. “We're very glad you decided to join us. This past year has been trying for many innocent citizens.”

“I can imagine,” Jean mumbles.

Erwin brings his hands back to grip the desk edge. “What with the ban and all, a lot of us were put out of work. Has Levi told you what you were going to be doing?”

“We told him squat, sir,” Eren supplies, flopping into a spare chair with a nonchalance that didn't match the mood.

“I see.” Uncaring at the casual tone, Erwin nods before turning back to Jean. “Tell me, is your cloaking as strong as they say it is?”

“I once made my house vanish for six hours.” Jean seems to think back to the memory with distaste, screwing up his nose with a grimace. Eren rolls his eyes. “Pixis said I was strong, but I've never made a show of it.”

“Strength is what we need at the moment. Up north, there are businesses taking off. Bars, potion shops—”

Jean’s head shoots up, scandalized expression twisting his features. “But those are illegal now!”

The conversation comes to a halt when Eren nearly falls off his chair laughing. Erwin lets him go with a faint trace of amusement, Jean looking offended that the werewolf was slapping the arm of the chair as Eren tries to control his breathing.

“I— I can't  _believe_ — He looks so  _hurt about it_ —”

Erwin snapps his fingers to direct Jean's attention back, the glare slowly melting away along with Eren's laughter. “They  _are_ illegal. But that doesn't mean the American people don't still want them.”

“But the rallies—”

Erwin rebutts before Jean can even think of how to finish his argument. “You can't always believe the news, can you? They say one thing but the people say differently. They say they want alcohol gone but they have cabinets and wine cellars hidden in their homes. And as for us, we need shops that sell products the average grocer wouldn't have.” Eren stands from his chair and moves to stand closer to Erwin, content as the motivations of their work were laid bare. His canines slip out once more and momentarily take Jean's attention before he shakes his head and focuses on Erwin. “The people have demands. As it stands, the business took a bit to work its way down here. The south has quite  _vocal_ supporters of the Prohibition—”

“Assholes who think cutting us off means we'll die,” Eren mumbles.

Erwin places a hand on Eren’s head to shut him up. Eren shivers at the touch and closes his mouth. “—but with our hard work and dedication we have the means to make a thriving living. Both for us and for those in the city.”

Jean nods. “And that requires my work because…?”

“We've set up several establishments already. We just need extra insurance that we won't be discovered.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the soft pleased sound Eren makes when Erwin's hand shifts in his hair. Jean runs his tongue over his teeth in contemplation. Erwin just continues on as if he already knows Jean's answer.

“You want me to cloak you from the police.”

“Police and other individuals. I'm sure you're aware the south is home to a  _very_ vocal group who happens to hate all minorities. They support the Prohibition amendment religiously. They tend to burn down distilleries and lynch the owners.” Erwin frowns and  _tut-tut's_ , releasing Eren's head. Eren frowns and stretches, rolling to delicately perch on an empty spot among Erwin's abandoned paperwork. “That would be very bad for business.”

“Undoubtedly.” Jean crosses his arms and looks over the proposition. “So, I cloak you… What about customers? Can't earn money if they can't find you.”

“We have a system in the works. One of our workers has been testing selective camouflage on our off-property brewing sites.”

“Would I just be cloaking? Because it wouldn't take long. It's too easy.”

“Of course not. We have other needs that you and other experts are needed fo—”

 

_THUNK_

 

“Mr. Smith! Mr. Smith!”

The door behind Jean begins to rattle, someone on the other side knocking rapidly and calling out repeatedly without much pause for breath. Erwin sighs lightly as if expecting this all along. Eren springs off his seat and wrenches the door open with the energy and disposition of an excited puppy.

“Marco!”

The aforementioned Marco steps in, holding a bottle filled with something purple and vaguely sparkly. His sleeves are rolled up and dyed a bit purple at the edges. Eren figures he must have come straight from his workshop, judging from the scarf still tied around his head holding his hair away from his eyes.

“Oh, hi, Eren! I finished that good luck charm for ya. I'll get it to ya when I—” His pearly grin dissipates when he finally notices the extra person in the room, lowering the bottle as a blush overtakes caramel cheeks. “Oh. Pardon, sir, I didn't realize you had company.”

Erwin clears his throat. “It's actually very good you're here.” He stands to clap one hand on Jean's shoulder, fully whirling him around to face the Creole man. “Jean, this will be your partner. Marco Bodt. Voodoo master, gris-gris hobbyist— So far he has been responsible for our countermeasures against the law.”

Marco flushes even more under the praise, tucking the bottle under an arm to offer his hand shyly. “Jus' Marco'll be fine. Nice to meetcha.”

Jean shakes his hand tentatively, Eren starting to laugh again as he loops an arm around Marco's neck. “Don't get flushed for Nancy, Freckles. He's harmless.”

Jean's jaw drops and he begins to protest, Marco laughing a little as Eren sticks his tongue out while draping himself even more on the shoulder he's claimed as his own. Erwin steps back behind his desk and picks up his pen to resume working. He sends one final smile in their direction that isn't innocent in the least.

“Eren, you're going to work with them, too. You can find your full orders with Hanji.”

“Wait,  _what_ —”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #2: Werewolves nuzzle to show affection and only permit things like head scratchies with people they trust. They also have an extreme allergy to silver, which has led to interesting visits to Hanji concerning a set of silver cutlery no one warns about but sets out on holidays. Last Christmas Eren had to walk around with burn shaped like a fork. It wasn't pretty. 
> 
> Be sure to leave a comment, kudos, concerns-any word from readers makes me intensely happy. 
> 
> And check me out on tumblr!: shingeki-no-unicorns


	3. The Job: or: Wolves Go Naked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean is a terrible excuse for a Frenchman, and Eren is too casual about getting naked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD NEWS: EARLY UPDATE
> 
> I gotta go on a family errand tomorrow at usual posting time so I decided to compensate by updating a taaad bit early. And by a tad bit I mean at half past 1 AM. I swear I make logical choices.
> 
> trigger/squick warning for mentions of racism

 

 

Working for the affectionately dubbed “Smith House” is an experience.

His official job, according to Erwin, is to play the part of illusionist. He hides the bars and production locations from sight. He makes the delivery trucks look less obvious. He acts as the wholesome distraction so buyers don't notice anything  _off_  about whom they're dealing with. He's the mascot. He acts as the harmless looking errand boy while others work behind him. Really, Jean just takes this to mean his job is to sit back and let others do the heavy stuff he really doesn't  _want_ to do.

Which he can't complain about. His family earns a lot of money doing what they do and he hasn't actually  _had_  to perform physical labor before. Eren, Jean finds, is revolted by this fact. Eren rakes his eyes over Jean’s body like he can't comprehend what he's seeing and loudly complains about “Nancy” making him do all the work.

He and Eren don't get along, as it turns out.

It's not his fault his chosen craft doesn't require much movement. But he spent a majority of his teenage years secretly studying and perfecting his power and he'd be  _damned_  if he was going to let the werewolf shame him for it.

His first real job comes a week after Erwin introduced him to Eren and Marco. So far all they'd done together was go over the security for the production sites—and the Smith property itself since there was apparently a moonshine operation going on inside the barn—and slowly introduce Jean to the other people who worked under Erwin or called the Smith House home. A surprisingly large amount of the residents were his age.

The job is a refreshing change of pace, actually.

“Okay, listen up, chucklefucks. If you mess this up, I skin all three of you.”

Or so he thought.

Levi seems to be the one who delivers their orders, from the way he calls them into the small room he calls an office. It's as dark and dreary as his wardrobe if Jean can be completely honest. The curtains remain shut every time they enter. A decorated lamp is the only source of light in the room and it’s mounted on a desk that is so obsessively organized all three boys are scared to touch it. Behind Levi's large cushioned chair is a painting of dark figures swirling and baring claws that only serves to intimidate them further.

Except Eren. Eren seems very at home in this room. Judging from the dog bed Jean sees tucked under the oak wood of the desk, there is a  _very_ good reason.

Levi pins all three of them with his eyes, and they stand to attention as he lays out a piece of paper with an address scrawled in his crude handwriting.

“Your job today is simple. We have a shipment coming into the harbor. Small boat, trusted business partners. We need you three to make sure  _the shipment comes in_ and you  _get it back here_.”

Eren slumps and looks disappointed. Jean wonders  _how_ Eren can be so casual; Levi radiates some kind of force that  _terrifies_ Jean every time they talk. The man just has that kind of feeling about him.

“That's it? Levi, I could do that on my own.”

“No, you can't.” Levi fixes his silver eyes on Eren, brows knitting together in a way that's almost reminiscent of a parent scolding a mouthy child. “The supplier might be trusted, but that doesn't mean they're  _nice_.”

Marco and Eren both groan. Jean looks to Marco in confusion. Eren doesn't like him much and doesn't tell him things, but Marco— Marco is the friendly face who got along with everyone and had bent over backwards trying to introduce Jean to everyone on the property. In the small time since they met, he could say Marco is the closest thing to a friend he had made.

Marco's freckled face turns sour and he sends an apologetic expression at Jean before gently explaining, “They're prejudiced, Jean. Eren and I can't accept the shipment ourselves.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“He's right.” Levi leans back in his chair, a tired sigh pulling its way past his lips. “They're good at what they do—Erwin's had them in his books for years and having a partnership is incredibly helpful—but they're also a piece of shit and we hate dealing with them.”

“So the colored man and the savage are out of the question,” Eren's agitated voice joins in. “You're up, Nancy.”

 

* * *

 

Levi had assured Jean, in his own crude Levi way, that it was very simple. Marco could walk him through it.

They simply had to wait in a shitty truck by the shitty docks and wait for the shitty boat to arrive so they could pay the shitty man for their shitty booze.

(Levi's words exactly, relayed through the timid voice of Marco Bodt.)

“It's cute when ya try to swear. Better than Armin,” Eren laughs from his spot in the back seat. He's the darkest skinned of all of them, so it was agreed he should remain hidden in the shadows should the supplier manage to see them. Which unfortunately gave him the entire back seat to stretch in, so Jean is a tad bit bitter. His body feels cramped from sitting up for so long.

“It's just mean trying to get him to swear,” Marco lightly scolds.

“I almost got 'im to say ‘motherfucker’ once.” Eren smiles as he muses, stretching languidly and plopping his feet on the space between Jean and Marco's heads. Jean bristles in irritation at the crusty mud stuck to Eren's shoes. “He turned redder than a crayfish and ended up nearly cryin’. Mikasa hit me for it.”

Marco hums. “She hits like a sledgehammer.”

“Don't I know it.”

Jean eases away from Eren's foot, noticing flecks of dried dirt drifting down onto the seat, and the conversation becomes a steady hum in the back of his mind. A boat out on the water blows its horn and a train rings its bells in the distance, reminding him that they're in the heart of the city late at night.

He's never actually been out this late. 

He's never actually done much at all, really.

He'd been to the docks maybe once before, in the area leisure ships board and leave. His mother and father had taken him on a boat tour or two before. He hated the move from France to the slow dredge of Louisiana so he had never quite taken to exploring.

He goes to school and he occasionally goes out with his parents for events  _they_  want, but other than that, he remains at home.

He had no idea how pretty the river is at night.

“Hey, Jean?” Marco taps his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts with a jolt. “You listenin’?”

Jean reddens, focusing on the floor. “What? No, sorry…”

Eren snorts. “We were seein’ who would win in a fight: Levi or Mikasa? Personally, my money's on Levi.”

Marco shakes his head, rolling his round doe eyes but smiling in amusement. His body is swiveled just so, so he can face Jean easily while maintaining conversation with Eren. Jean is really content to just let the two of them continue on alone. They seem to do a fine enough job already without dragging him in.

“You distracted? Nervous since it's your first job?” Marco gently bumps his shoulder with his fist.

Jean shakes his head, looking back out at the water. A river boat slowly paddles its way out, coated in twinkling lights and sending faint tunes of jazz into the air. Funny music, jazz. His parents hate it. Jean tells them he hates it, too, but he can't help but try to pick up the rhythm of the music as it dances over the water. “Just…it looks different at night.”

Eren takes his feet off the seat to put his head there instead, slinging one arm up to gesture as he talks. “’Course it does. City's alive at night. Daytime is when the old folk take over.” Jean stares at the boat some more, making out the shapes of people dancing on deck. The shiny material of party dresses glisten in the lights. “You mean you've never bothered to come out of your stuffy little bubble?”

“I don't live in a bubble,” Jean mumbles.

“Coulda fooled me,” Eren grits back. “What kinda self respectin’ man lives in New Orleans and doesn't even try to enjoy it?”

Marco thumps Eren's forehead, ignoring the yelp of pain. “I'm sure he enjoys it well enough, Eren. Not all of us sneak out at night to dance in the road.”

“One time.”

“ _Five_  times and the cops say you're on thin ice.”

Eren groans. “That was Mardi Gras. It don't count!”

Marco looks duly unimpressed, crossing his eyes and taking a completely maternal, scolding expression on his features. “Levi had to pick you up from jail.”

Eren holds up one finger. “Holdin’. Jail's a lot different.”

“I'm sure you'd know.”

“Um…” Jean interrupts, shrinking back even as he speaks because he  _knows_  he sounds stupid. “What's the  _deal_ withMardi Gras?”

Marco and Eren pause. Eren stares at him with a face of horror, of shock and pity, and he looks so dangerously close to shedding a tear it would be comical if not directed at  _Jean_. Marco places a hand over his chest in a gesture universally recognized by all United States southern residents as “bless his heart.”

“We hafta get rid of him,” Eren says at last. “Marco, we hafta get rid of him. He don't belong here—”

“You poor, sweet summer child.”

“I can't do this.”

“Come here and let Momma Bodt take care of you, you poor thing—”

Jean swats Marco's arms away and he laughs in response, Eren groaning and thumping his head loudly against the seat. “Don't patronize me!”

Marco's smile cracks for one second before knitting back together with confusion. “We ain't patronizing you. But you gotta admit it's kinda funny.”

“How long have you lived here again?” Eren asks, scratching his scalp and squinting at him as if the answer was written somewhere on his skin.

Jean crosses his arms and slinks lower in his seat. “Four years.”

“Four years…and  _no clue_  how important Mardi Gras is,” Eren whispers dumbly. “Unbelievable. And you call yourself French.”

“I know  _a little_  about it,” Jean shoots defensively. He doesn't, really. The holiday would invade all conversations after the new year began, everyone asking about parades and masks and cakes and arguing over floats. His parents were regular guests at parties thanks to their business and after the first year, when he had been blindsided by flashy feathers and glitter and clown makeup that  _scared_ him more than entertained him, he had turned down going out each year. 

In France he had heard of this kind of celebration going on in larger towns and big cities, which was what he  _assumed_ was going to be a normal fun holiday, but upon seeing a scantily clad woman coated in feathers and a man on stilts as tall as the family car, he realized it was  _nothing_  like his expectations.

“Uh huh.” Eren doesn't sound like he believes him one bit. “Okay…ya know Lent? The Catholic thing?”

“No.” Jean isn't anywhere close to religious. The overabundance of hype turned him away from ever taking any of it seriously, and his parents had never expressed that his was a family that belonged to a church. It was  _especially_  relevant in the move, when the first question his new classmates asked him was what church he went to or if he even believed in such things. Their opinion of him seemed to hinge on that question.

Eren slaps Marco's shoulder before slumping back into his seat with a sigh. “Marco, you take over. You're the church boy.”

Marco huffs at the slap but sits up, running a hand through his hair. “’Kay, so a lot of people don't actually care about the church stuff involved. But the whole point of Mardis Gras is to basically…party out all the sin before Lent. But since this is New Orleans—” his eyebrows wiggle as if that explains so much more “—it basically means we party for ages and throw elaborate parades and have the time of our lives just ‘cause we  _can_.”

Jean nods, then looks even more confused. “…and Lent is?”

“You give up somethin’ for, like, forty days, I think,” Eren pipes up. “Marco, what'd you give up last year?” 

“Sweets.” Marco rubs his chin. “Cuz you kept pilferin’ candy through me and makin’ yourself sick.”

Eren growls and pouts at thin air. “Not my fault canines can't have chocolate. Stupid digestive system—”

It feels just a little more comfortable then. Marco laughs and leans over the seat to ruffle Eren's hair; Eren swats the hands away but smiles. The tension of the job, of being out at night in a city Jean’s never liked or explored, melts away a bit.

The river boat is still twinkling in the distance, but the jazz is even louder now.

The three of them all sit up when another boat slowly chugs up to port. It's small, very few lights shining and completely silent as it maneuvers its way to an empty slot not too far from their truck. Jean swallows nervously. The comfort he felt during their idle talk fades and nervousness takes hold.

“It'll be alright.” Marco pats his shoulder before turning to Eren and dropping the soothing voice. “Strip. We need ya to check out the cargo.”

Jean chokes on air and barks out a loud “WHAT,” head whirling to stare at the back seat as Eren tugs off his clothing in complete nonchalance. Marco doesn't even look back; he just opens the glove box to fetch a wad of money and a leather collar.

“Is my bare ass that fascinatin’, Nancy?” Eren quirks a brow. Jean blanches.

“What the  _hell_!? Why are you  _naked_!?” 

“Can't shift very well with my clothes on.” Eren shrugs.

Jean whirls back around, shivering and thanking everything in him that he didn't look  _down._ There's a sickening sound in the back, of bones creaking and a growl of what might be discomfort or irritation, a thud or two of a limb hitting the seat mixed with coughs of discomfort. Marco undoes the little fixture on the collar and tosses the money wad to a still shivering Jean. He doesn't seem to notice the grotesque popping of vertebrae in the back.

Eren's head peeks back over the seat, noticeably furrier than before. He yawns, canine jaw stretching widely, before jumping over and positioning himself in Marco's lap. Marco laughs as the large shaggy mound of fur licks his face.

Jean scoots even further away.

“’Kay, Jean, Eren's gonna pose as a guard dog. He'll follow ya out, sniff the stuff, and if he paws at your leg, then somethin’ is wrong. If he sits by ya, then it's okay to give the man the money.” Marco fixes the collar around Eren's neck, which is obediently bared. The collar has Eren's name spelled out in the leather.

Jean nods, still staring. Eren's fur matches his hair.

“Go get 'im, tiger.” Marco pats Eren's side, smiling at them both as Jean swings the door open and hastily hurries out of the truck. Eren pads after him softly.

He stretches, a few more bones seeming to pop into place, before fixing Jean with his attention. Jean takes a step back. Eren's roughly the size of an actual wolf, nothing too noticeable out of place. He'd certainly fit in as a dog to a random boat captain. He's wiry like he is as a person, with broad shoulders tapering down to a thinner waist and smaller legs.

But being next to a freshly shifted werewolf was…odd.

The kind of odd that sets off Jean's internal panic alarm. The one that settles a feeling in his stomach he can't quite place. He realizes he actually doesn't know anything about what a shifted werewolf is  _like_. Eren stares at him as if awaiting orders and Jean notices the scars over his eyes are still there, still tracing over a vibrant blue green that shouldn't be possible on an animal. He swallows, taking a deep breath before beginning the trek to the boat.

Eren tries to walk next to him, but Jean ups his pace.

He's pretty sure Eren glares and growls at him when he passes on to sniff the cargo, leaving Jean alone with the grubby captain wearing the chum stained overalls.

In the end, Eren sits next to him to signal all is right. But he tears the bottom of Jean's pants before they walk back to the truck with a growl that sounds a bit like a chuckle.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #3: The Kirschstein family, prior to certain events and moving out to their small mostly inhuman village, was Jewish. Combining this with Jean's tendency to never ask his parents questions, he has grown up a very ignorant child. 
> 
> As someone who has GONE to a New Orleans MG parade, I can confirm it's a completely mind boggling sight if you don't know what to expect. If my social anxiety had set in at the time I probably would have cried. 
> 
> If anyone wants to ask questions, browse my Bootleggers inspiration tag, or ask questions I DO have a tumblr: shingeki-no-unicorns
> 
> As always comment and kudos appreciated, don't forget authors need it to live


	4. The Voodoo Master: or: Marco "I Accidentally a Zombie" Bodt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact the dead are rising isn't the reason to worry. The reason to worry is that Levi has a strict 'no dead things' policy as a house rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAY HAPPY MONDAAAY
> 
> I have so many ideas for this collection that I actually go back and write new installments to put in before the already-done chapters. It's rare when I crank out that much material at once. Consider your little hearts blessed. 
> 
> BIG NEWS: I started a writing blog! An influx of attention on my regular blog played a part in the making, but I'd actually wanted to for a while. The blog focuses solely on my fics and occasional original projects
> 
> Squick warning: casual mention of dead things

 

Marco's voice had sounded desperate on the phone.

“Jean, _please_ , I need you here! This is really, really important! _Don't tell Eren!_ ”

The kind of desperate bordering on hysterics.

“Is this _work_ important or is someone dying…?”

“ _Please_ come over! I can't do this by myself and I think Levi's gonna kill me!”

The kind of desperate he knew really meant Marco meant it.

So of course Jean had booked it to the house. Of course he had taken his father's leisure car, even though his father would probably screech at decibels only known to small animals if he knew Jean was taking turns at full speed, and of course he had hastily parked it with skid marks following him halfway down the dirt driveway. He had flung himself out of the car so fast he tripped and scraped his hands, still trying to run even with a majority of his weight trying to fall down. He had run so fast to Marco's little workshop he was sure he had pulled a muscle he hadn't known he _had._

He did not expect what awaited him.

He should have known this wasn't quite the emergency he expected when Marco waved him over still wearing his _study getup._

The study getup that consisted of a purple headband, dots of paint in intricate little patterns all over his face, and odd little necklaces and charms made from bones and other materials Jean was always afraid to ask about. Marco only ever wore those things when he was going to spend hours studying and practicing with the various little forms he picked up from scattered priests in the city.

Marco’s nervous, eyes darting all over, checking behind Jean for a shadow, making a distressed noise before grabbing Jean by the suspenders and yanking him out to the tiny backyard.

Jean’s slightly miffed that he’s always grabbed there, but he doesn’t comment. “So what happened? Why can't I tell Eren?”

“Eren can't keep secrets from Levi. It's a fact. All he has to do is stare and Eren will fess up every crime he's done since he was born.” Marco looks sick, suddenly stopping and twisting to slam his hands down on top of Jean's shoulders. “And he will _kill me_ if he finds out about this.”

Jean gulps, and then Marco pulls him around the corner to see the terrible secret hiding behind his servant-quarters-turned-studio-home.

The secret is a gray skinned man aimlessly walking around a tree, with a rope around his waist keeping him anchored.

Jean blinks. The man doesn't acknowledge him. In fact, he walks into a tree branch and stumbles back, only to do it again as if the branch might move out of his way. “…did this guy stumble onto the property?”

Marco rubs his arm and looks down. “You could say that.”

Jean's gaze switches between a guilty looking Marco and the man who still hasn't swatted the branch away. “Did he find Sasha and Connie in the barn? They aren't supposed to be brewing this week.”

Marco looks positively green. “No. He's been here the entire time.”

Jean blinks. The outside of Marco's little house wouldn't betray anything illegal, so there isn’t much need for worry. But this means they have to go over the borders _again_ to strengthen the security, since they had obviously failed and let in this aimless man. “Is he drunk?”

Marco hangs his head. “He's dead.”

“ _What?_ ”

 Marco throws up his hands, face screwing up in absolute panic. “I don't know what happened! I was takin’ a break, you see. Mina's still down in Austin and she called and wanted a good luck charm since she was workin’ on this expensive truck for a client who was a real jerk and I wanted to be a good friend so I said yes and I was in the middle of prayin’ and all—” He gestures to the side, where Jean can see a few stray items in the grass and what looks like the remains of a burned object in the dirt. “—when I needed to let somethin’ sit so I took out a book and I was just _readin’_ ,Jean, I was just _readin’_ —”

Jean holds up a hand to silence him mid-confession, letting the poor freckled boy breathe for a moment, and stares at him with a mixture of disbelief and awe. “…you were _reading,_ and a zombie showed up.”

“That's not just it!” Marco yanks off his headband and runs his hands through his hair, smearing a bit of the paint on his forehead. “Look right there!” He points to a nearby bush, which upon examination has a human sized hole under it.

A quick glance to the man tied to the tree shows his coat isn't the brown thought of at first glance. It's covered in dirt.

“…you accidentally made a zombie.”

“This is so wrong. Voodoo ain't about raisin’ the dead!” Marco chews his fingernail, one hand still scratching at his skull with worry. “I just made a walkin’ stereotype. And probably offended everyone in my church.”

“How do you _accidentally_ make a zombie?” Jean pauses, reminded of a conversation had in the car just yesterday. “You haven't gone to church in a year.”

“I go to _parties_ at church.”

“That isn't even close to going to church.”

“Oh, well, excuse me, _Mister Agnostic_. I had no idea you were the church police!” Marco snaps. His face softens, and his shoulders sag as a sad groan makes its way past his lips. The man tied to the tree chews a leaf, unnoticed. “M'sorry. But this is really bad.”

Jean lightly pats his shoulder. “I think Erwin might be forgiving if it was an accident.”

“Except there's a gapin’ plot hole here.” Marco shivers. “Jean, ya know why all the graveyards here are above ground?”

“…aesthetic?” Marco frowns at him. “Cost efficiency?” Marco frowns harder. “Weird Orleans-ean tradition?”

Marco slaps a hand over his mouth. “The soil ain't stable. Stuff rises to the surface when it rains. It's _law_ to bury everyone above ground so we don't have coffins floatin’ down the stream.” He points to Tree Man, who is now gnawing a branch with a bumblebee aggressively _thunk_ ing itself against his head. “So why did _this_ crawl out of the _ground_?”

Jean stares at Tree Man, realization slowly crossing his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

Jean fidgets. “…do you think he was—?”

“I don't know.” Marco shrugs. “I don't _wanna_ know.”

They both stare at Tree Man. Tree Man doesn't acknowledge them; he merely makes an odd sound with his throat and finds another branch to gnaw on.

Jean speaks first. “So what are you going to do with him?”

Marco turns and walks to his backdoor, grabbing a shovel leaning against the frame. He comes back and hands it to Jean in deadpan. “I was hoping you would help me take care of him.”

Jean drops the shovel in disgust. “I'm not helping you bury a body!”

Marco puts on his best pleading face, bringing up his hands to beg. “Well, dead things freak me out!”

“Dead things freak _everyone_ out!”

Marco growls and bends down to pick up the shovel and shove it in Jean's direction. “Well, they freak me out the most, so please hit the zombie with the shovel.”

Jean shoves the shovel back. “No! You made it, you kill it.”

Marco shoves it again, both of their hands clasped over the handle now as the shovel travels back and forth between their chests. His face twists into a more serious form of nervous fear and for a moment, Jean thinks about actually doing it. “I can't _kill_ it! It was a person!” He pauses. “Once!”

“Well, I don't want to do it!” Jean shoves the shovel back, just a tad more gently this time. “That's a corpse. I don't want to go anywhere near it!”

“Please, I swear I'll do anything—”

“No!”

“I'll get you a date! Mikasa owes me a favor—”

“No!”

“I'll give you free good luck charms for a year!”

“That's what got you in this mess to start with!”

“I'll curse someone for you! You want Eren to stub his toe every day for a month?”

“That's tempting but _no_!”

The shovel is shoved back and forth the entire argument, neither boy giving in as they refuse to be the one to put poor Tree Man out of his misery. Again.

Until Tree Man falls to the ground with an anticlimactic _thump_ , causing the both of them to drop the shovel and stare. An arrow sticks out of Tree Man’s head.

Slowly, the boys turn around.

Sasha, still holding her bow, is glaring them down with a face that belongs on a disappointed mother. At her feet is a small deer with two more arrows sticking out of its torso. Eren is beside her—furry and dripping wet—holding a rope with several arrow-skewered ducks in his mouth. The boys pale as they realize they had caught the two coming home from a hunt in the woods.

Sasha puts her bow away and sighs. “We're tellin’ Levi.”

Eren softly  _woofs_  in agreement.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #4: Marco decided on one of the renovated servants quarters as his workshop because he occasionally makes use of a snake for his craft, and there is a VERY strict 'no animals inside the house' rule in place thanks to Eren's shenanigans as a pup. 
> 
> As always-read and leave a comment! Be sure to visit my new writing blog [HERE](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) either to ask about the fic or just say hi!
> 
> Until next week~


	5. The Road Trip: or: Texas is Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Texas in the summer isn't fit for living beings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That time of the week again, this time featuring a subject I know very well: road trips. 
> 
> My parents are divorced and every school break I had to withstand the 7 hour car ride between mom and dad. Texas to Mississippi. And it wasn't even that far INTO Texas, I lived close to the border to Louisiana. 
> 
> Worse yet was the last 3 years I spent there, when I had to go through Texas summers with no air conditioning inside mom's trailer. God that was awful. I became Eren. That poor werewolf. 
> 
> Squick warning: suicide jokes via Eren

 

It is hot.

Now, that alone isn't truly enough to describe the heat. If you really wanted to know, you would call up your nearest friend or associate who has actually set foot in a Texas summer, and ask them how the fires of Hell taste upon human flesh.

Louisiana in summer is groggy. The state is the closest thing to a jungle the USA has—large leafy plants, constant fog and rain, bugs the size of animals—and summers there are moist affairs that weigh down all residents with sweat. It is miserable. But those who call the state home are used to it. Living by the water gives New Orleans an advantage in terms of cooling off, even if the water is dirtier than a sewage pipe on its worse days.

Texas has no such advantage.

Texas is _dry_. Folks who grow up in moist summers—folks native to Mississippi who get an _annual goddamn monsoon season_ —say they would prefer a dry summer. They are wrong.

Texas summers are the most miserable phenomenon a human being, or in some cases inhuman being, can live through. The sun sucks out all life. Stepping out into the hot light results in eyebrows being burnt clear off faces. Lungs turn to ash just by breathing in one gulp of hot, burning air mixed with orange dirt that’s sent up in giant plumes from cars. Lakes decrease in size by feet, crops whither to nothing, and grass becomes nothing more than an itchy fire hazard.

What possessed Mina to spend her summer in Hell, no one knows. 

But the boys are paying for her decision dearly.

“Eren's trying to drown himself in the cooler.”

Marco groans, rubbing one sweaty hand over his equally sweaty forehead, as he tries to glance behind him where the large metal box carrying food and drinks is. Eren's form is indeed jammed into the cool water left over from their ice. “Eren, stop tryin' to commit suicide.”

Eren pulls his head out of the water, dripping all over everything and sending the most hateful look he possibly can to the front seat. “Let me die! This is unbearable!”

“Mikasa'll be awfully disappointed she lost her brother to the sun,” Jean mumbles, cooling himself with a cheap paper fan they had purchased at a rest stop twenty miles back.

“Eat my entire brown Choctaw ass,” Eren shoots.

“Someone gets cranky when they're hot.”

Eren growls, making Jean slide further into his seat. “It's over 100 degrees out there! _Canines don't have sweat glands!_ If I shift, I'll fucking die in my own fucking fur!”

“Good, maybe you'll stop _bitching_.”

Marco sighs. It's too hot for this. “Calm down and drink a soda. I know we have some cold Cokes in there.”

“I'm gonna hike my leg and piss all over everything if I drink another goddamn soda!” Eren shakes his head, sending a spray of droplets everywhere that feel a bit welcome in the excruciating heat of the car. “I swear to God, I'll do it!”

Marco prays for rain. There isn't a cloud in the sky.

 

 

The trip had been sprung on them without warning. Mina had gone to Austin for work reasons—she and Thomas were apprenticing under a mechanic willing to give a sixteen-year-old girl a hand at “man's work.” She had left in May and her time was coming to a close.

Lo and behold, everyone began to argue over who got the painful task of going to get her. She was more than old enough to take the train, sure, but Mina decided she would pay back Erwin for letting her run off all summer by bringing back a metric fuckton of tequila. So a bigger party needed to be sent out to drive the truck she said she had loaded up.

Which was what led to a miserably exhausted Marco, a whining Jean, and an angry Eren, who was one step away from throwing himself under the car to escape the sun. They hadn't even had time to do more than grab an extra set of clothes before Levi kicked them out with the keys to the truck.

“Anyone got magic that'll cool the car down?” Eren yanks his head out of the water in the cooler long enough to ask the question, praying someone says yes before his shirt permanently becomes a part of his skin.

Jean groans, sluggishly lifting his hand. “Lemme try.” He reaches into his pants pocket, pulling out a thin, polished brown object that looked rather…stick-ish.

Eren wrinkles his nose. “You keep a stick in your pants?”

“Shut it, Jaeger. It's a wand. Tradition.”

“Can tradition make ya stop bein' a stuck up prick?”

Jean growls, peeling his sweat-sticky back off the seat with a painful noise, and raises the wand. He waves it once, twirling his wrist, mumbling a few choice words under his breath in intense concentration.

Nothing happens.

“Well, then, Nancy is a failure at everything. But that's not news.”

“Okay, _you know what_ ,you bag of fleas—”

Before the two can truly get into it, a miniature roll of thunder sounds from the roof and it begins to rain inside the car.

 

 

“Fleabag.”

“Smartass.”

“At least I don't chew my own ass.”

“At least I don't rely on Daddy's money.”

“I don't pee on trees so I'm the real winner here.”

“I can kill a man with just my jaw. What can you do? Wave a stick?”

“I'll stuff this stick down your throat—”

“Are you comin' on to me?”

“ _If you two don't shut up, I'm gonna ram this car into the nearest solid object and leave you inside to burn_.”

 

 

Texas has a peculiar landscape. When they had entered, it was nothing but trees. Trees everywhere. Pine trees. Lush amounts of green upon green (or in the case of heat, brown upon orange), the smell of sap permeating the air almost comfortingly. They also provided shade at the right angle, which made them the best thing one could ask for.

But then trees had given way to farmland.

And with farmland came…rolling hills of nothing.

“I spy with my little eye…something brown.”

Jean breathes against the glass of the window, praying for death. “It's the grass, Eren.”

“Right again, ya privileged fuck.”

“…you know what, I'm too hot to even fight about this.”

 

 

“Isn't there some kind of Indian rain dance you could do?”

Eren peels his face off the cooler, a large red spot forming on his cheek, and gives Jean a lethal glare. “Indian rain dance?” Jean shrugs. “It _rained_ in the _car_ already today, ya stupid fuck.”

“I mean out there.” Jean jerks his thumb towards the window, where the fields of cotton are giving way to fields of cows trying to cram themselves into overfilled ponds in an attempt to cool off. “Rain will mess with the atmospheric pressure. Cools the ground off. Makes the temperature drop. And it will cover the sun, so…”

Eren groans and rolls his eyes. “Yes, Jean, let me perform a Choctaw rain dance inside our movin' car. It will work just fine in this endless cloudless sky. Truly, you are a genius.”

Marco sighs as Jean grits his teeth and prepares for another fight. “Hey, at least I'm thinking of options!”

“Your options suck!”

 

 

Marco almost goes into a gospel number about being thankful when Eren and Jean fall asleep in the middle of a traffic jam. One of the buildings nearby has a window cracked open, soft record music slowly drifting through the summer air. Eren has nodded off still hugging the cooler. Jean has curled up in his seat—one hand still protectively clutching the wand he never bothered to put away—and starts letting out soft snores within minutes.

It's the most peaceful stretch of the trip so far.

 

 

Jean's cute, when he sleeps.

Marco's familiar with how Eren sleeps. He curls up like a dog, back bent at an angle that shouldn't be comfortable but somehow is to werewolves, sometimes trapping some unfortunate soul in his arms to play prisoner. Marco has had that privilege a few times. Eren kicks his leg when he dreams. When he's on his back, his limbs spread out at awkward angles. Marco has spent enough time around Eren to know when he's sleeping peacefully and when he's slipping into bad dreams.

They've shared a bed often enough for him to really learn, which says something. Not that he’ll tell Jean outright. At least, not yet. He isn't sure on Jean's stance on those sorts of things.

When Jean sleeps, he finally relaxes.

It's harder to notice, at first, but he's in a state of constant stress. Keeping his form straight, keeping his head high, worrying at who is watching and what to do and how to appear in control. If not for the strained muscle in his neck and the constant worrying of his jaw, no one would be the wiser.

And, well, if Eren wasn’t able to _smell_ the stress leaking out of Jean in waves. Everyone blames Mike for teaching him that trick.

But even without Eren's super-wolf nose, Marco can tell. He’s the eldest child in his family after all; he knows what stress looks like. He knows to stay tightlipped when the shoulders of his parents tense and they don’t have time for games. He knows the look on someone's face when they’re just trying to make it. Whatever bothers Jean is enough to keep him wound up even among friends.

Seeing Jean slump against the seat, finally relaxed, is refreshing. The intensity in his face fades and when Marco looks over at him, he can see the gentle slopes and angles that betray just how young Jean actually is. He silently wonders what Jean's life is like outside of work.

Eren wakes up and yawns, but stays silent when he sees Jean's resting face. He doesn't say a word and silently plucks Jean's wand out of his hands before setting it down gently in the crease of the seat.

They drive for twenty more minutes before Jean wakes up.

 

 

“ _Hola_ , boys! Good to see you got here in one piece!” Mina, perky as always even in oil stained overalls, greets them with a smile and a wave with a wrench still in her hand. “Eren didn't bite anybody, did he?”

“Oh, ha ha, Mina.” Eren seems to melt his way out of the vehicle, muscles rolling and anger intensifying the longer the sun beats down on his poor body. Jean follows him out with a groan. “Keep makin' jokes like that and you'll end up with a tail soon enough.”

“Keep your irony in your pants, Fido.” Mina punches his shoulder, cocking her head to give Jean a once over. “Who's the _gringo_?”

Eren gestures tiredly with one arm. “Nancy, Mina. Mina, Nancy.”

 Jean elbows Eren roughly in the chest. “Jean. Jean Kirschstein.”

Mina nods. “Okay, Jean-Jean Kirschstein. Booze is in the cellar. We can move it tonight. In the meantime, I've booked you a hotel next street over.” She reaches into her pockets and pulls out a key, handing it off to Marco. “It's got a couple'a beds, a pool— You'll be fine—”

Eren takes off before she's done, stripping his shirt with a breathy mantra of “pool pool pool.”

Jean stares after him. He tries to keep his eyes off the moving muscles of Eren's back but utterly fails.

Marco only sighs. “Did ya _have_ to say the P word?”

Mina grins bright, a smear of motor oil on her cheek shining in the sun. “He'll learn when he hops in and it's like fresh soup. Texas ain't made for werewolves.”

 

 

The ride back isn't nearly as stressful. Marco finds he misses having Jean ride shotgun.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #5: The Kirschstein family wand is 11 inches of willow with a unicorn carved into the handle. It's really not Jean's tool but he persists on using it. 
> 
> Don't forget to kudos and comment, and feel free to follow/hit me up on my [SUPER COOL WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'm always free to chat or answer questions. I even post fic art there sometimes.


	6. The Fight: or: Marco Bodt is Friends With Babies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arguments are had and Marco resorts to mothering. Which is average, considering who he works with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday!
> 
> I hope everyone had a pleasant Easter, I didn't get anything this year but I'll have a great time pilfering cheap leftover candy from the dollar store.

 

Marco's momma had always told him that patience was a virtue.

He took her words to heart, following all the teachings and stories passed down the Bodt family line for generations and taking a good moral from each and every one. He instilled all those morals on his younger siblings and cousins as a good brother should. He was a productive member of his community, and if you ask his neighborhood about the eldest Bodt boy, they would reply he is a saint.

Right now his lifelong virtue of patience is the only thing keeping him relatively sane.

“Left! _Left,_ you idiot! How many times do I have to tell you—?”

“If I go  _left_  like you keep  _sayin’_ , we'll run right back into the crowd and the three of us'll be hangin’ from a tree by sundown!”

It had started when Eren had to play guard dog and Jean had tossed the leash to Marco. Jean had backed away, letting the two of them do all the acting, keeping his eyes _firmly_ on a tree off to some distance and not making eye contact with the angry wolf.

“I have a plan!”

“Does your plan involve your damn stupid stick again? Because that thing is gonna get ya killed one day—”

“Don't you _dare_ mock hundreds of years of tradition—”

“Tradition my  _ass_. Since when does a white boy care about cultural tradition—?”

This wouldn't be an issue if this wasn’t Jean's strategy every time Eren has to shift during a job. The time at the docks, the job the next week where Jean looked skittish as Eren sniffed around a warehouse for their goods, the job the week after where Jean outright stayed in the car as Eren patrolled for police cars—every single time Jean found an excuse and every single time Eren got angry.

“Oh, so this is a race issue now?”

“It's  _always_  been a race issue, you ignorant fuck—”

“I told you for the last time, the werewolf thing _doesn't_ —”

Frankly, Marco is sick of it and he won’t let this stupid issue plague their group anymore.

With a mental apology to Momma Bodt and the lord above, Marco decides patience is _not_ the virtue he needs right now and rushes forward from his spot in the backseat to knock Eren and Jean's skulls together. This causes Eren to hit the brakes and nearly crash the truck into a tree just a little too close to the dirt road they've been lost on for the past half hour. In the back they have supplies for a customer up north, three barrels of moonshine and two crates of various charms that need delivering, in Levi's words, by yesterday. In Marco's opinion, they don’t have time for pointless arguments.

So Marco makes use of the emotion so rarely seen in him by residents of the Smith household that ghost stories are told about it. Anger. “Eren, out the front. I'll drive.”

Eren pulls his best puppy eyes, gripping the wheel tightly. “But, Marco—”

“Out. Before I put a knot on your head for bein’ stupid.”

Eren groans but complies, switching seats and pouting in the back. Jean snickers. “I didn't know you could _be_ mean. You're always so polite.”

“If ya think sweet talkin’ me'll keep me from knockin’ sense into ya, then you're sadly mistaken.” Marco cracks his knuckles and then starts the truck again, turning them carefully around to prowl the road. “Now cloak us to look like a delivery truck. It's summer so fish'll be bein’ driven out to near everyone. Won't garner much attention.”

“The brown guy behind the wheel might,” Eren mumbles, pulling at a thread on his trousers.

“I'm lighter than you. Put your wolf ears to work and listen for people followin’ us.” Marco punches the gas a bit harder, pinching his lips together as Jean mumbles the incantation he needs and Eren silently watches the road from the back window.

Once they get further up the road, Marco’s eyes flick to his passengers and his anger melts away. This is the second month since they have been assigned to each other. Only the second. And Eren and Jean are content to argue instead of solving anything.

“What's _with_ you two anyway?” Marco asks. “Eren, you haven't picked this many fights since you were fifteen.”

“He started it.” Marco shoots him a _look_ in the mirror. Eren shrinks down. “He's got a thing about werewolves.”

Marco sucks in a breath. Of course that is it. That is always Eren's issue with people. _Always_. Of _course_ Eren would notice and just get angrier over it instead of confronting Jean about it. “ _Jean_.”

“I do not have a _thing_ about—”

“ _Jean_.” Marco's head rolls to give him a flat look, causing the other man to retreat towards the door. “We've worked together a while now. It's about time we solve this problem.”

Jean looks like he wants to protest, then sinks into his seat with defeat.

“I'll start since Eren is a bum about his emotions.” Eren throws a middle finger over the seat. “Basically: stop worryin’. Eren's the same as a wolf as he is as a person. Annoyin' and lazy.”

Jean softens a little, but doesn’t look to the backseat. Marco takes a turn and begins silently counting the distance between them and the customers. “I met Eren when we were thirteen, ya see. He's been a wolf since he was ten. He's a fine functionin' member of society. Now that's all I'm gonna say since it's his business. _Eren_ , stop actin’ out because he's ignorant. And, _Jean_ , next time just ask a question so ya don't make an ass of yourself. Stop bein’ babies.”

Silence overcomes the truck once more. Marco is sure it’ll last a bit and make them think; he had channeled the great spirit of Momma Bodt for that rant and he'll be damned if it doesn’t work.

Lo and behold the silence lasts for twelve minutes. It’s Jean who breaks it this time. Marco withholds the smile of victory wanting to break out.

“I just didn't know how to react around a wolf, okay? Figured you hated me anyway.”

Eren huffs and crosses his arms. “I was angry you kept actin’ like I was gonna bite your ass the second you turned around. Shit's offensive.”

Jean turns around to finally make eye contact, briefly flickering on the two jagged scars that trace down Eren's eye. “Can you blame me, though? With the reputation wolves have?”

“Personally, even I find it kinda ridiculous you _believe_ those rumors,” Marco cuts in. “Eren's a big sweetie pie who likes to cuddle. Curls up like a big dog. I could never see him ripping apart some poor villager for no good reason.”

“Cuddle? The hell—” Jean snaps up then, flying to look at them both with confusion. Shameless, Eren wiggles his eyebrows in response and Marco poorly hides a flush and focuses on the road. He hadn't meant to make it sound so incriminating. There goes the plan to slowly tell Jean and prepare for the worst— “…seriously? _You two_?” Marco flushes even more, puffing his cheeks and looking for road signs to avoid looking at Jean, mumbling he shouldn't have mentioned it. “You know they could jail you for that, right? Call you mentally ill. How the _hell_ are you so casual about it?”

Eren snorts and shifts in his seat to run a hand through Marco's hair, trying to alleviate the tomato red coloring. Marco doesn't let him know how much he appreciates it. “ _Humans_ could jail us. But other folk don't give a fuck,” Eren says.

Jean is dumbfounded. “…they don't?”

“Naw. Figured you of all people would know. _Pixis_ was your teacher. Old man's depraved.” Eren glances up and down Jean's figure, eyebrow rising as to somehow signify Jean has failed some sort of quiz. “Ya know, there's a species of mermaid that does the seahorse thing? Men have the babies. Covens have a tendency to fill up with lesbians.” He pauses, then smirks evilly and licks his lips. “We wolves have a mighty high fanbase'n all with the queer crowd. We're dominatin'.”

“Please, you melt when you get head scratches.” Marco slows down to take another turn, looking around to make sure no one is following.

“I am a ferocious animal, Bodt.”

“You're a lap dog.”

Jean rolls his eyes at their playful argument. “Ugh, I can see it now. You two are sickening.”

“We aren't a couple, Nancy.” Eren sticks his tongue out. “I date around wherever I want. We're just… Marco, whaddya call it?”

Marco softly smiles to himself as they pass a road sign declaring their destination is coming up. “Friends who happen to have had mutual attraction and occasionally make use when no other options are available.”

Eren snaps his fingers. “Yeah, that. Couldn't resist my Choctaw charms.”

“You're half German, Eren.”

“Same difference.”

Marco lets out a giggle, finally pulling the truck up to the location their customers had agreed on. His smile brightens as Jean and Eren climb out, no traces of their previous fight lingering. Now they're debating on Eren's wooing abilities. Marco just shakes his head and goes to talk to the customers about their money. The sound of the petty argument mixes with the cargo being unloaded from the truck.

“I bet you completely stink.”

“I bagged _Marco_.”

“Marco doesn't count—”

“You sayin' Marco ain't _fine_ Creole ass? Because he's _fine Creole ass_ —”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #6: Marco is a giant mother hen and he's the one the kids at the Smith house go to when they need emotional support. Despite the fact he didn't actually live there until he was grown. 
> 
> Comments and kudos greatly appreciated, and don't forget to hit me up on my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) for bonus material and discussion!


	7. The Crush: or: Jean Kirschstein is a Raging Bisexual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because finding both of your coworkers attractive means something is wrong...right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday folks! 
> 
> I'd like to give a shoutout to my amazing editor [Codi](http://collections-of-codiak.tumblr.com) who deals with all my bad writing and misunderstanding of tenses in order to bring you new chapters every monday. Go give her some love.

 

 

 

It isn't that Jean is jealous.

Really, it's not.

But it's been a few months now. Summer is in full swing, it's sweltering out, and he can't stop ignoring the fact he's beginning to find his coworkers attractive.

The same coworkers he knows occasionally fuck each other, if the innuendos and Connie-passed rumors are to be believed.

The same coworkers who are still a bit split on their opinion of him, even if Eren is slowly losing the tendency to spit his name in conversations.

So, really, it's not like Jean's jealous.

Up until this point, he was adamant about being very much heterosexual. After all, he is normal. He has to be normal just to live. Every time he sets foot in the city, he sees signs saying who can go where and who is allowed to do what. He needs to be normal if he is going to live here. He’s sure he has normal interests. He played normal games as a child, and he listens to normal radio and normal music.

He even has other normal romantic interests! Eren's sister Mikasa frequently comes by and Jean happens to find her very attractive. He has taken to staring at her and admiring her strange sort of beauty. 

But for every glance he gives to Mikasa, he gives another to Marco without thinking.

For every profile study of Mikasa, there is another of Eren as Eren stares out the window 

For every daydream of Mikasa, it eventually turns into Marco or Eren biting their lip or flexing their arms as they work out in the barn that holds the distillery.

Jean’s having a hard time convincing himself he isn’t developing a serious problem. Especially when he comes to Marco's little cabin in the refurbished servants quarters and starts drooling at what he sees. It should be illegal to lounge with so little clothes on.

Marco is swirling liquids around in little bottles, one book propped open against a stack on the floor, dressed only in a sleeveless top and his underwear. A fine sheen of sweat is dotting his face and Jean feels like someone has kicked him in the stomach just looking at it. Resting his head on Marco's crossed legs is Eren, who is only in loose boxers and the odd little good luck charm made of a brass key and some feathers and chicken bones.

“Close the door, would you? I don't want the bugs to get in.” Marco smiles kindly from his spot on the floor, hair blowing in the evening breeze. Jean dumbly does as commanded. He steps further in and kicks his shoes off, noticing the windows are all open with mosquito netting tacked on.

“Is it really that hot?”

“It is if you've been in here long enough. Louisiana is like a jungle. Humidity sucks the life out of ya.” Marco sets down one of the bottles and picks up a handful of what looks like ash from a box to his right, blowing it around the bottle in his other hand. It starts to glow yellow and Marco hums in victory. “I feel bad for Eren, though. Poor guy has fur.”

Jean feels a pang in his chest looking down at the sleeping wolf. As a human, Eren doesn't have too much hair, just the shaggy mop on his head and the cluster sticking up from the edge of his underwear— _which Jean is not staring at; no, sir, no reason to stare at the muscles leading into a sharp V_. The rest of him just has light brown strands that blend so well with his skin Jean never notices. Jean's eyes briefly flutter over Eren's arms to discover the left has a large disfigured patch, and in a moment of realization figures that must be where Eren was bitten. Marco hasn't looked at it once the entire time so Jean doesn't ask.

Instead, Jean covers up his blatant staring with a shrug. “At least he can sweat. It would stink if being a werewolf took away his sweat glands.”

“It stinks even when he  _does_  have them.” Marco chuckles. Jean pretends his stomach doesn't do flips when Marco's cheeks crinkle.

“Touché, Witch Doctor.”

“All right, Eren's sweat stink aside, I did call for a reason. Ya see these books?” Jean nods, eyeing the stack of leather bound monsters with scrutiny. “Armin sent these my way for ya. He thinks if we start blendin’ our stuff we'll get stronger mojo goin’.”

Jean nods towards Eren. “No homework for Spot?”

“No. Armin  _did_ collect his spit for some experiment with curse transfer, but overall Eren was done with work hours ago.”

“And he just camps out here?” Jean settles down on the floor, taking one book from the top of the pile and cracking it open in his lap. Eren shifts in his sleep and mumbles.

“He lives here, actually. Has a room in the manor.” Marco shakes the bottle again, leaning to scan a passage and check his progress. Jean lets out a single “huh” in response. “He's lived here since he was thirteen. Bosses practically raised him.” Jean raises an eyebrow, watching Marco reach down to scratch Eren's head. Eren’s leg twitches and a pleased rumble starts in his chest.

“Well, where did he live before?” Jean thumbs through the opening pages of his book, the pleased rumbles coming from Eren soothing him more and more. With the sun going down, Jean is finding the idea of sleeping here too easy.

Marco opens his mouth to speak, then slowly closes it with a brief glance spared at Eren's face. He pushes back the glimpse of sadness Jean can swear he has seen and flips it into coy amusement. “That's his story to tell.”

Jean doesn't comment on the shift in mood and seeks to lighten the subject. Marco's face looks too pleasant in the orange light of the evening to be frowning. Not that Jean has been staring at the contours of Marco's face or anything. “All right then. What about you?”

Marco looks surprised and bites his lip before casually replying, “Pa works on a fishin’ boat. Momma Bodt cooks crayfish.” Marco shrugs as if the information doesn't matter. “Younger brother Maurice is startin’ out as a jazz musician. Still lives at home by the river.”

“Other siblings?”

“Three. All of ‘em are kids.”

“And the voodoo?”

Marco laughs again and the sound damn near makes Jean shiver. “Son, ya don't live in New Orleans and  _not_ learn some voodoo. My gramma was a priestess.” His mouth crinkles in fondness, hands going back to work with his little bottles.

“Again, touché,” Jean dips his head back down to scan the material Armin picked out. He’s met Armin maybe twice in his whole experience working here; the little sorcerer often stays cooped up surrounded by notes and books. Armin and a peculiar potion maker, who insists on going by “they,” seem to develop all the products before handing the recipes off to Sasha and Connie in the barn. Armin had been happy to meet with Jean, but seemed to phase out mid-conversation after glancing at a page with an interesting diagram.

Considering Armin does the same thing when he talks to  _anyone_ , Jean is surprised to find Armin does in fact remember his name and face.

Jean continues reading about illusions and perception trickery for at least a good ten minutes before Marco stops fiddling around and speaks again. “So what about  _your_ story?”

“My story?” Jean tilts his head, turning a page to examine an illustration of the human eyeball.

“Yeah. What's Jean Kirschstein's big life story?” Marco wiggles his fingers dramatically, leaning back enough to exaggerate but not enough to disturb the softly snoring werewolf in his lap. “You came from France and all. Anything exciting ever happen?”

Jean shrugs. “Not really. Our house was about the same size and our village barely had any humans in it. Dad's company found good business here and he moved us when I was a teenager.”

“No business in the land of stinky cheese?”

“Business wasn't very good, considering France was in a warpath and the world was going to hell.” Jean frowned. “And don't insult our cheese. Italians make even worse cheese and no one ever brings  _that_ up.”

Marco withholds a chuckle and pretends to still fiddle with his bottles. “I had no idea Europeans had such  _politics_  about cheese.”

“Everything is politics with us. We hate each other. But then we all come together to make fun of you Americans.” Marco lets out a dramatic gasp, and Jean can't muffle the grin that desperately wants to break free. “Us French make fun of Canada more. Though we should make fun of you Orleans people the  _most_.”

Marco points a bottle at him accusingly and Jean leans back, holding his hands up in a pacifying gesture. “What for? We're very lovable.”

Jean scoffs and rolls his eyes, making sure to act overly offended. “Your French is so slurred sometimes it's incomprehensible. It's a miracle it's recognizable as French at all.”

Marco leans back to rest his head on his fist. “Pretty petty reason to hate someone.”

Jean holds up one finger, tone becoming factual. “Marco, my dear friend, the French hate  _everyone_. We even hate each other. We feel so much hatred we start revolutions over every little thing. Our blood is infused with hatred.”

Marco's eyelids droop and an expression that  _oozes_  “Oh, really” in its purest form takes over. “So much anger. Truly you are something to be feared.”

“Our national animal is a cock. We are not to be trifled with.”

Below them, Eren lets out a grunt and rolls halfway over. His hand slides up to lazily slap itself over Marco's knee and he attempt to cuddle it. Marco only ruffles Eren’s hair again, and Jean feels his fingers tighten with the urge to join him. He needs to stop this. Jean tears his eyes away and focuses them intently on his book, trying to digest the words but playing white noise over in his head instead.

It's not that he's jealous.

It's  _not_ that he's  _jealous._

He repeats these words over and over to himself, trying not to watch Marco gently scratch Eren's head until Eren’s gummed up sleep mumbling stops and tiny snores take their place. Jean repeats them as he looks at Marco with something bordering on affection in his eyes. Marco finishes toying with his bottles and picks up the one that's gone from yellow to bright blue.

_It's not that he's jealous._

“Hey, Jean, if ya want, you can stay the night tonight. I got somethin’ that'll make this little shack the best room in New Orleans.” Marco shakes the bottle roughly and then pops out the little cork. The blue mixture inside turns three shades lighter and a soft rushing sound begins.

Marco points the bottle at him, and Jean feels cool air blow against his face.

Jean struggles to keep his face unimpressed, but it's so very hard when he hasn’t noticed how uncomfortably hot he's gotten sitting around still clothed. “…this is why Eren's here, isn't it?”

“The boy always knows when I'm makin' this. It's like he has an alarm in his head.”

“And why didn't we have these in Texas?”

“No time.”

The two of them laugh, and Jean decides he'll stay. He'll kick himself for it—he knows he will—and he'll slam his head against a wall tomorrow, but he'll stay. He'll stay so he can talk with Marco and make fun of Eren tomorrow for sleeping on the floor. Because he's finally becoming real friends with them.

Because right now nothing seems more appealing than going to sleep with freckles to count and soft snores replacing the eerie silence of a creaky house.

_Certainly_ not because he's jealous.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #7: The kids at the Smith house sneak off to a lake in the woods when it gets deep into summer. Levi hates it but he doesn't make an effort to stop them. He just remarks he's not going to help if a snake or a gator decides to bite. 
> 
> As always COMMENTS and KUDOS are appreciated, as is attention on the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I post art and extra material


	8. The Pack: or: Mike's Nose Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let it never be said that the elder members of the Smith house don't have hearts. Especially Hanji. They keep them in jars, there's a collection actually-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite things to explore in the Bootleggers verse is the actual dynamic of the Smith household. It's like one big family of wackjobs who sometimes have issues. That being said, Eren and Mike have a particularly fun history since they're the household wolves. 
> 
> But that's a story for another day

 

To the untrained eye, it may appear as if Levi is enjoying a summer afternoon by lounging on the back porch with lemonade.

To anyone who lives in the Smith house, it is evident Levi is having leg pains and doesn’t feel like making the intensely painful climb up the stairs to his bedroom. His injured leg—injured _how_ is a mystery to all the kids, but the limp he sports on rainy days is more than enough to vouch authenticity—sits propped on a cushioned stool; another plush pillow is tucked under his back as he focuses on the activity buzzing around the property. The various kids who call the house home have suddenly decided hundred degree weather is perfect for baseball. Watching them injure themselves has been enough to take his mind off the throbbing in his ankle.

He should probably call for someone to get an ice pack, but that would require moving.

Thundering steps making the ice in his lemonade shake alerts Levi to someone joining him on the porch. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know it’s Mike wearing a smug face under his mustache. “There you are, you crippled bastard.”

Levi lazily flips him the bird and takes a sip of his drink. He should have put alcohol in it. “You're home early. Didn't Shadis intend to keep you for a week?”

“Resolved the issue.” Mike takes a seat on the porch swing to Levi's left, leaning back with a happy sigh. He stays silent for a moment before following Levi's gaze out to the makeshift baseball diamond. “How's the pack?”

Levi snorts softly. “Not your pack, from Eren's point of view.”

“Didn't mean it as mine.” In the field, Connie sticks grass down Christa's shirt, only for her to turn around and drive her foot into his stomach. Ymir abandons pitching to roll on the ground and shake with laughter. Mina can only drop the bat off her shoulder and look exasperated. “My pack is with Nanaba. This here is yours.”

Levi groans and shifts his leg. His ankle feels swollen. There must be rain moving in later. “You mean Eren's. I'm no wolf.”

Mike shrugs. In the field, Eren is resting his head on Marco's shoulder as he waits for his turn to bat. Jean, who looks completely unhappy being stuck outside with as hot as it is, is in the outfield watching his partners with a face of frustration. “He treats you as the alpha, so…”

“He's supposed to outgrow that.”

“He won't.” Mike grins, mocking and all knowing. “Remember when you brought him here? Pup fought you every chance he got until you slammed him in the face with a book and barked an order. You've been alpha ever since.”

Levi remembers all too well. Eren had been so small for a thirteen-year-old, had bitten and clawed at anyone who touched him, and had been filled with anger and fear and confusion at his situation. Hanji's advice to go easy on Eren had worn off fairly quickly, and after Levi had put his foot down, the brat had started clinging like a lost toddler. “Don't remind me.”

Mike's smug grin only grows. “Erwin is alpha number two, I'm sure he reminds you enough.” Out in the field, Sasha calls for a switch and the kids exchange positions, Eren whispering in Marco's ear before slinking off towards the barn. He rolls the shoulder for his scarred arm, and Levi vaguely wonders if Eren can feel the rain coming as well.

“Stop applying your crazy wolf logic to everything. It's bad enough that Eren does it.”

Mike shakes his head. “Once it's there, it's there for life.” Marco takes the pitcher’s mound and both men feel a little proud when he strikes Ymir out. Her feathers ruffle in annoyance and curses fly as she throws the bat down. Connie laughs at her but silences himself when she flaps her wings at him threateningly. “Speaking of the pup, when were you going to tell me he's taking a mate?”

Levi pauses, lemonade glass halfway to his mouth as he inclines his head toward Mike. He blinks in confusion. “What?”

Mike taps his nose. “I can smell it. Kid's trying to court someone.”

Levi shakes his head and sets the lemonade down. He thinks back over the summer, over every dinner conversation, over every mid-job phone call, over every request for extra pocket change because “the movies have got this new picture, please, I gotta go see it”—and he draws a blank. “Eren hasn't dated anyone since that bar floozy in May.”

Mike wrinkles his nose and frowns. “Not what I smell.”

Levi recoils in disgust from the implications. “How the _fuck_ can you smell—?”

As if he is gifted with perfect timing, Eren chooses that moment to shoot out of the shadows, shaggy on all fours, and stampedes across the field to snatch the ball out of the air before Jean can swing. Shrieks and shouts of laughter fly as Jean abandons the bat to give chase. Marco doubles over with his shoulders shaking as Ymir runs out cheering the wolf on.

The men on the porch watch as Eren circles Marco and wags his tail before shooting off as Jean finally begins to catch up. Mina throws a slipper that scrapes Eren's ear and the rest of the kids give up the game to join Jean's chase.

Mike hums. He cants his head from side to side, watching them all before nodding. “Ah. So that's it.”

Levi breaks his eyes from the mass of teenagers. The sun vanishes behind clouds that seem to have amassed from nowhere and the smell of dirt suddenly turns a bit moist. “What's it?”

Mike waves his hand. “Nah. It's nothing. Tell the pup I wish him the best.”

The rain finally comes down, slow at first but turning hard quickly as the kids finally realize the change. Eren stops leading Jean around the barn and begins full speed towards the house. Levi can see the ball still clutched in his mouth. Several of the younger kids scatter and take shelter but the elders only laugh and pay no mind to the water. Connie whips off his hat and lets the droplets pelt him in the face full blast.

For a moment Levi's lips turn up into a ghost of a smile, a small sense of parental pride blossoming while watching the kids have fun. The pride morphs into a dose of horror when Eren quickly scrambles up the porch steps and runs right past him into the house.

Wet and dirty.

Followed by a horde of _also_ wet and dirty teenagers who are beginning to track mud and shove each other down in an attempt to get through the door first.

Mike snatches his lemonade and finishes it off as Levi shoots up—bum leg be damned—and follows the mess inside to punish the wolf responsible.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #8: Nile is a member of the police department, and is the officer who arrests Eren every time he does anything remotely fun. This has been happening fr a while since an incident involving Nile's kids and one of Erwin's fancy parties. A marriage proposal may have been involved. 
> 
> As always COMMENTS and KUDOS are appreciated! Rec this story to others! Post links in places! I live off of feedback and I'm ALWAYS available on my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) for bonus material or questions!


	9. The Flamingo Incident: or: The Gang Goes to Jail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a true story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hi. 
> 
> Sorry about the late update. There was a schedule slip, I was wrapping up chapter 15 of my other fic [Eyes of Gold](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1957959), college stuff with my editor happened-all in all postponing until today was the best option. So sorry. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is much shorter than expected, but it IS based on an actual event. Last semester my photography class went to the zoo for a field trip and apparently while we were entering the facility, a flamingo was stolen. 
> 
> Lo and behold, I was the one accused of taking it. 
> 
> Maybe it's because irl me is like Louise from Bob's Burgers personified...or because I made a big deal about robbing the gift shop...or because I'm generally known as that girl who's gonna end up in jail before finishing college...whichever way you look at it I ended up taking the blame. 
> 
> I wasn't arrested though. Turned out to be some college frat boy.

 

The Audubon Zoo opened in New Orleans in 1914. It boasted a large collection of exotic animals and fun attractions for the whole family, becoming a staple of the city and gaining a reputation for being the perfect place to have fun. It was one of the great prides of the city.

As it was, Jean had never been.

As it also was, Eren and Marco weren't allowed to enter the zoo grounds on account of their skin color.

Yet, that didn't stop Nile from pulling the three of them over as they were walking on the sidewalk and hauling them to the police station after an incident of theft was reported inside the zoo grounds.

“I maintain I did nothin' wrong.” Eren leans against the bars entirely casual, occasionally waving to a passing officer. Several greet him by name and seem amused at his presence. The secretary even stops by and asks how he’s been getting along.

“No, _I_ did nothing wrong.” Jean keeps his arms crossed, angrily glaring at anyone who dares to look at him through the bars of the holding cell. The stiff bunk crinkles under him with every movement, forcing him to remain still if he wants to retain his sanity. “I don't know why I'm even here.”

“You called Nile out for arresting Eren.” Marco shrugs and continues to pick at chipping paint on the window bars. “Didn't you ever learn? Cops get pissed when you point out they're wrong.”

Jean blanches. “So that means I have to go to jail!?”

“Depends on the charge.” Marco looks away from his paint peeling to focus on Eren. “What did Nile say you did?”

Eren stretches and folds his hands behind his head, propping one foot up against the bars. “Flamingo went missin' in the zoo.” He shrugs, rolling his eyes to think. “Apparently that's worth a trip to the slammer.”

Marco is silent.

“What?”

“Eren, did you steal the flamingo?” Marco's voice is reminiscent of a parent talking down to a small child. It's the same tone Erwin takes when one of the kids at the house does something monumentally stupid.

Eren's foot slips, hands dropping as his nose crinkles in anger. “No!”

Jean snorts from his seat. “Why the hell would Eren steal a stupid pink bird?” Marco's eyebrow raises and Jean rethinks his question. Eren _has_ come home more than once with something ridiculous that obviously didn't belong to him. A stupid pink bird would be his exact type of target. “Oh…yeah. Yeah, I get it now.”

Eren throws his hands in the air. “Oh, come on! How would I even get it out of the zoo?”

Marco grins. “Well, you snuck a chicken into the house under your shirt once.”

“And I got pecked to death, so I ain't ever doin' that again.”

Jean perks up, bunk crinkling as he shifts, and his hands drop to his sides. “Last week you stole that feather boa from the drag queen who ran that one bar.”

“It wasn't even good feathers!”

Marco chuckles, meeting eyes with Jean as Eren continues to turn red. “You stole Mikasa's skirt once.”

Eren stiffens, lips turning thin. “That was a dare.”

“Connie dared you to steal it, not to wear it in front of her.” Jean laughs loudly at that, doubling over and pointing at Eren in mockery. The wolf growls at them both but the barrage of laughter continues. Marco hops up onto the bunk, making it crinkle twice as much with his weight, and slings one arm around Jean's neck. “Ya shoulda' seen him, Jean; he pranced so much before she socked him in the face.”

Eren frowns, shoulders slumping at the memory. “She made me buy her a new one.”

Jean bites his lip to keep the laughter inside. “And you call _me_ Nancy." 

Eren sticks his tongue out with a pout. “Hey. Unlike you, I look damn good in skirts. You'd make a really ugly lady.”

Jean gets ready to reply, a scathing mark already on his lips, but the sound of a woman’s voice breaks through the air. “Eren? Is that you?”

Eren becomes a bit sheepish. He slowly turns, a pained smile forming on his lips with a small wave. “Hi, Marie.”

Marie, dressed to the nines and clutching a fine beaded handbag, looks surprised at first, but her expression flattens and a heavy sigh passes ruby red lips. “Again?”

Eren nods. “Again, ma'am.”

Jean leans close to Marco and whispers in his ear. At the bars, the lady sighs, awkwardly patting Eren's head through the iron and offering a sincere-looking apology. “Who is that lady?”

Marco's reply is easy and casual, and he waves to Marie before he replies. “That's Officer Nile's wife.”

Jean narrows his eyes. “The guy who arrested us?”

“Yeaaahhh…” Marco rubs his neck. “It's a long story, but Nile arrestin' Eren isn't exactly a surprise anymore.”

“I'll say,” a deeper voice cuts in and Marie smiles, Eren shrinking into his shirt somewhat nervously. Erwin marches to the holding cell, jacket slung over one arm, surveying them all with an expression that seems to mix resigned exasperation with amusement.

“Hi, Erwin,” the three boys inside the cell chorus.

“Boys,” Erwin greets back. He turns and smiles at Marie, shaking her hand gently in greeting. “Marie. Pleasant as always.”

Eren presses himself against the bars desperately. “Erwin, ya gotta believe me. I'm innocent.”

Erwin's face doesn't change, merely staring at Eren—who decided waving his arms through the bars got his point across better. “What did Nile arrest you for this time? Illegal dancing? Again?”

“Flamingo theft.”

Erwin doesn't respond. Marie's expression, confused at first, morphs to match his. Both remain flat as they maintain a steady gaze at Eren's face.

Erwin speaks first. “Eren, tell me the truth. Did you steal that bird?”

"No!"

“Ya see, that's what I asked,” Marco added in.

“ _Why does no one believe me_!?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #9: Eren is so well known by the police in Nile's precinct that he gets Christmas cards. 
> 
> As always comments and kudos are GREATLY appreciated, as is attention on my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com), where I post extra material and talk about the Bootleggers verse outside the fic itself. I even draw.


	10. The House: or: Eren's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren's story could easily be called a tragedy, if he told it to anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs to go hug my editor because she made it through finals week without killing herself or anyone else. (so sorry about skipping a week, I wasn't gonna push her to edit when she has college stuff to do)
> 
> This chapter is a bit...darker and edgier than previous, so warning for that.

There are things to be said about the kids who took up residence at the Smith house.

One is that a majority of them are not normal children. Most, if not all of them, are less than human or have talents that place them outside the spectrum of society acceptance. Two is that only _some_ of them are legally known to be residents of the property. Three is that all of them come to live there through an older person finding them and thinking they needed a better place to hone their crafts.

Four is that most of them have a story. Some are open about their background, like Connie. Connie will tell anyone who listens how he left home to seek out a purpose that proved he wasn't an inept mage, how he braved the wilds all the way from Ohio before Hanji found him as he worked over tourists in the upper part of the city with card tricks. He had been fourteen at the time. Everyone knows the story and everyone generally knows everything about him, as he is a very social person.  
  
There are kids who give  _part_ of their story, like Sasha. Sasha's claim to fame was being found at fifteen by Mike as she stole from the food storage in the middle of the night as she passed through Louisiana in her travels. It had taken two hours pleading for her life before Erwin let her stay on the condition she put her talents to a better use than lifting bread and eggs from strangers’ cabinets. Aside from that, no one knows much about her, other than she is a good marksman and she keeps food stored in random spots Levi is not likely to check.

Then there are kids who no one knows  _anything_ about. The best example is Annie, the crystal witch Jean met maybe once since he began his employment. She’s a member of the house who doesn’t actually live there full time. She will appear and stay for a bit and then vanish to do more work and then suddenly reappear without warning. She has two boys with her at all times when she leaves and they stay by her whenever she comes back. The only other person to work that way is Mike, who frequently vanishes with his small pack only to return a month later bearing news of success and a funny story.  
  
Eren is firmly in the second category. Everyone knows he is a wolf. Everyone knows he has no family outside the house. Everyone seems to know Levi brought him and Mikasa in when they were thirteen, and that is the end of it. Maybe someone somewhere knows something more but they’re tight lipped and never spread what they found.  
  
With information on Eren being next to none, all the gaps are filled with the way he is now. He eats a lot of meat. He can't have too much chocolate or he vomits. His favorite drink is the little glass bottled Cokes from the corner store near the streetcar station. He has a penchant to be ridiculous for a laugh. He likes to talk even when no one talks back.  
  
So the fact he is stone silent is a very concerning one, at the moment.

Silent, and very, very still.  
  
Jean and Marco had noticed his odd behavior three hours ago when they received information on their next delivery (twenty five units of whiskey, heading to logging men in Mississippi who wanted “the good shit” and sent an excellent payment for direct delivery), but neither made a move to mention it. And Eren only became quieter with each mile closer to the drop off location.  
  
“Eren?” Marco's eyes flutter between Eren and the road, never taking more than a few seconds to observe Eren's profile against the window. “Eren? Bud? You okay?”  
  
Eren doesn't answer. Jean taps Marco's shoulder and tilts his head, receiving a nod in return as the signal to take over. He peers at Eren from his spot in the cramped backseat of the truck and feels a metaphorical wall shutting him far away from wherever the wolf's mind is. Doesn't mean he won't try knocking.  
  
“Scruffy, you mind telling us what's wrong? You're worrying Marco and I'm pretty sure that's a federal crime worse than the booze in the back.”  
  
Eren doesn't give a response further than clutching his hand tightly around the good luck charm that normally stays tucked under his shirt. The bones and feathers Marco attached jiggle uselessly with the movement of the truck. Eren's fist remains only around the brass key.  
  
The other two occupants of the car become more worried.

 

  
  
The truck stays silent for the rest of the ride. They ride along the river, passing gas stations and families out enjoying the summer sun the closer they get to the few old housing developments clustered together outside city limits. Eren swallows hard enough to be heard over the engine when they slow to a stop and turn into a little row of white houses with chipped paint and sagging roofs.  
  
Marco begins to gasp, but bites his lip roughly and holds it in, glancing at Eren from the corner of his eye. He breathes a few times to calm himself before saying in an obviously fake cheer, “The drop off is on Jinae street. We leave the whiskey in one of the abandoned houses and pick up the rest of the money from a loose porch step. Think you guys can handle that?”  
  
Eren nods once, head turned at a sharp angle to stare at the houses. Jean gives a hum as his answer and peeks to the direction Eren is so focused on. Only a few of the houses seem to have any occupants. Dark, wrinkled seniors sitting on their porches with cracked glasses of lemonade, one or two children lying in the grass. The houses around them have broken windows and are missing doors.  
  
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. “Oh, so this is a slum?” Eren clenches his jaw and Marco narrows his eyes. Not in anger it seems, but in the scolding way Jean usually sees in his mother when he curses in front of her. “I mean, it's a poor neighborhood, right?”  
  
Eren's shoulders tense. He opens his mouth to speak for the first time since the job began and his voice sounds horribly cracked and strained. “It used to be a safe place. Ten years ago everyone up and left for the city.” Marco parks the truck in front of a horribly neglected little home with the door hanging on one hinge at an awkward angle, and Eren is outside the truck before the engine is even off, saying  “I'll be back—”  
  
Jean watches him go and hunches to make himself look smaller. “Did I…? Did I piss him off again?”  
  
Marco slumps against the wheel and watches Eren disappear between two houses with a decaying fence. He sighs, rubbing one hand over his face slowly and using his pointer and thumb to dig into his temple. “No, no, you're not… This was on me. I should have noticed.”

 “Noticed what?”  
  
Marco's reply is muffled against his hand, eyes closed and voice tired. “We're in the Walls. Shoulda figured we'd be close to his house.”  
  
  
  
  
  
The house manages to look exactly the same, yet drastically different.  
  
That's how it always is, when he manages to come back. Weeds and ivy are overtaking the structure at this point. The window that managed to remain intact is coated in grime, no longer covered in tiny fingerprints from little hands drawing pictures in fog. The door is gone, tossed into the yard, now half-buried under a growing ant pile and grass that comes up to his waist. The white and red paint is weather worn and chipped to show the aging wood underneath. The worst of it all are the claw marks.  
  
He can see them etched into the porch, long dragging lines acting as jagged footprints. He can see them clearly in the doorway tearing into the wood, covering the notches where he and Mikasa measured their height as children. As he steps inside, he sees the wallpaper is curling more and more, the claws leading a path of destruction through the sitting room. Where there had once been a sofa, there’s a decayed mess of fabric. Several mice scuttle out as he walks further inside.  
  
There's flood damage now. A brown ring a few inches off the floor, fading away the color in the wallpaper still attached to the wall, making it bubble, making the floorboards swollen and misshapen and beginning to rot away. An overturned chair is in the corner with mold and Eren can briefly remember his father sitting in it, showing his children how each little item in his kit worked. Scraps of what was once a floral curtain flutter in the breeze let in by a shattered window.  
  
From there, he moves into the archway that leads to the kitchen. The wood molding is torn and ruined beyond recognition, a chunk near the floor missing in a hole the size of a bowling ball. A mouse scuttles inside and peeks out with its little eyes as Eren passes.  
  
The stove is coated in grease and cobwebs. He remembers his mother cooking meals, stirring scrambled eggs and bacon and waving her cookware at him in warning to eat everything on his plate because some children weren't so lucky to have what he did. The table is missing legs and tilts at such an angle that it barely stands upright. The claw marks throughout the house seem to all congregate here; they coat the underside of the table in a myriad of violence, spreading to the floor and mixing with the shattered remains of dishes.  
  
The wall suffered the worst damage. Caved in, they said. Structural integrity damaged, they said. The gaping nothingness where there had once been cabinets and coat racks and rain boots is so jarring that it fails to feel like the same room he had grown up with. Bricks and boards and plaster coat a good half of the room and spill into the weeds dominating the backyard. Distantly, Eren recognizes a rusty bicycle propped against the fence that he and Mikasa would take turns riding on the street.  
  
He sits down amid the broken dishes and the splinters from the table, facing the direction he came in from. It feels like being hit in the chest when he realizes he's left footprints behind. It hasn't felt like long enough for the dust to become that thick.  
  
His eyes flicker to the wall and the blood splatter. Thick droplets, some dribbling down after impact, cover the tacky pattern his father always complained about and his mother always defended. Daisies were perfect for a kitchen, she had said. They were always her favorites. His hand moves to the floor, where under the dust and broken glass and scratches is the same dark brown stain spreading in thick puddles.  
  
He'd laid there for three hours, they said.  
  
He'd been held down and bitten and it’d taken forty five minutes of sweating and fever before his first shift, they said.  
  
He'd passed out from the pain, they said.  
  
His mother had been killed instantly and she hadn’t had to suffer or watch, they said.  
  
Mikasa had found him right there, bleeding and shaking and unconscious as a scrawny brown wolf pup, they said.  
  
As his fingers trace the little scratches where his ten-year-old self struggled on the floor, he wonders about everything they said and why coming back never seems to make him remember.  
  
They never have anything to say for why an entire day is missing from his memory.  
  
Not Erwin. Not Levi. Not Mike or Hanji or Mikasa or Armin—none of them have anything to say about that or about why someone would do this to a little kid. None of them tell him anything.  
  
_“I looked at the scar. The bite didn't have tearing, Erwin. They didn't do it to rip the limb off or hurt him. Whoever bit this pup did it just to—”_  
  
“Eren?”  
  
He jumps and sends up a little dust cloud that dances on a breeze he doesn't actually feel on his skin. He realizes with a start that his hand has developed an iron grip on his arm that's probably bruising already tender flesh.  
  
A grip that tightens when Marco tentatively steps into the kitchen, carefully placing his hand on the wall, far away from any stains or jagged tears in the wallpaper. He doesn't touch Eren, doesn't even try to move to, and he sighs in what seems to be relief before turning back and calling out, “I found him! He's in here!”  
  
Jean's steps are big and clumsy and he accidentally kicks something that sounds horribly broken. When he comes up behind Marco, he's breathing heavily and red faced. Eren wonders just how out of shape he actually is. Jean's eyes dart around and the tightening in his muscles show he's figuring out very quickly what this place is. Eren sees sweat dot his forehead and realizes it's been too long since he walked away.  
  
“The delivery… ‘m sorry, I—”  
  
“Hey, no. No, don't worry about it.” Marco's voice is deep and soothing, betraying the worried crinkle in his brow. Eren's eyes flick back to the floor and he feels a thick cloud begin muddling his thoughts. He’s a terrible partner, making them do all the work while he runs off and sits in the ruins of a nature-worn house. Why does he always come back here? What does he hope to find in the place his life was ruined?  
  
He distantly hears someone move and feels a warm hand draw him close. Without thinking, he ducks his head into the embrace and nuzzles himself deeper. They smell like detergent and fancy body spray.  
  
He doesn't really register the words being spoken as his mind fully checks out from the situation.  
  
“Is he going to be okay?”  
  
“Yeah… When we get back get, Levi— He knows how to handle this.”  
  
As he drifts off, he thinks about how comfortable this warm body is. He'd like to stay here a while. Maybe have them scratch his head like he likes.  
  
“I don't know why he comes back here—”  
  
The thought vanishes as soon as it forms.  
  
“—told him before, Mike's pack came back to look, even—”  
  
He wishes his mother was here. She always knew what to do.  
  
“—there isn't a basement. The key goes to nothing.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry not sorry
> 
> Bootleggers bonus fact #10: Eren's old neighborhood doesn't actually exist, but the inspiration for it comes from the abandoned living complexes left with flood damage after Katrina. We drive directly through them every time we leave the city and their emptiness, along with the horrid state of disrepair, is chilling. 
> 
> As always COMMENTS and KUDOS give me eternal life, as is visiting my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I post extra material and art and talk about things not mentioned in the fic


	11. The Whistle: or: The Boys are Utter Infants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoever bought the dog whistle in the first place probably knew this would happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI. 
> 
> A lot's happened since the last update; I graduated high school, started a serious job search, have had stress breakdowns over the job search-and in the middle of it all I sent off the next chapter....only my dear sweet (coughcoughlosercough) editor is in the middle of moving. So. 
> 
> Instead of the chapter I sent off I decided to upload one of the unedited prompts from my [writing blog](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) to sate you all since you've been waiting.

 

 

 

It’s about the fifth time that Eren purposely trips Jean from underfoot that Marco has enough. “Eren,  _knock it off_ _.”_

Eren—brown and shaggy and on all fours—huffs and narrows his eyes. Marco narrows his own in return, silently challenging the wolf to defy. Eren’s resolve crumbles and Jean lets out a “Ha!” of victory when Eren pads out of the way with his tail lowered.

Marco turns to Jean next. “I don’t know what you’re laughin’ about, son. You still gotta work.”

Jean’s victorious smirk melts into tired displeasure. Eren makes a snorting noise that sounds too much like a chuckle for Jean’s liking and turns his head away to feign innocence when a scowl is sent his way.

For a few minutes, the only sounds are Marco counting stock and Jean loading barrels for delivery. Eren takes the time to lay his head down and lazily listen for people that may come their way.

Then Jean finds the whistle.

It’s in one of Erwin’s trucks, one of the more inexpensive models done up to look rattier than it actually is, and Jean finds it tucked away behind a toolbox left behind in case of engine trouble. It’s long and thin, pin-like, and when Jean sees the little notch in the side, he immediately blows on it to test it.

He hears nothing.

Eren shoots up and falls on his side for rushing.

Jean stares. Eren is looking around erratically with his eyes comically wide, walking in circles trying to find the source of his surprise. Jean sticks the whistle in his shirt pocket.

When Eren lies down again, suspicion dotting his face—as much as emotion can fill a wolf’s face in general—Jean slowly pulls the whistle back out.

He blows it again when Marco is examining a case of wine, and this time Eren yelps.  Jean tucks the whistle back in his pocket as Marco sends a worried look in Eren’s direction. Jean tries very hard not to look guilty.

He fails and Eren growls in his direction.

Marco shakes his head. “ _No_ , Eren.”

Eren huffs. His ears twitch, eyes staying firmly on Jean as he lies back down, and Marco nods in approval before going back to work.

Jean waits exactly one minute before blowing the whistle again. Eren makes a strangled gurgle noise but doesn’t move, staying still as Marco looks at him again with minor annoyance from all the interruptions. Jean hides a smirk behind his arm as he feigns wiping sweat from his brow. 

This continues three more times. Each time Eren sends him a deadlier expression, the eye surrounded by scars twitching just a bit, but he doesn’t move. Marco remains oblivious.

Until the fourth time. Jean gets cocky and tries to recreate a little jazz number he heard on the radio that morning, and Eren has _fucking enough_ _._

With a snarl, he leaps from his spot and tackles the wizard to the ground, snapping his jaw towards the whistle clenched in white-knuckled fingers. Jean smacks him on the snout with his free hand repeatedly and curses in French, jabbing his knees into Eren’s belly, waving the whistle far away from Eren’s face and  _hopefully_  in some sort of blind spot—

Then suddenly the whistle is gone and Eren is stone still. Jean tilts his head, baring his neck to the wolf and going ignored, and gulps when he sees a very disappointed Marco flatly staring down at the two of them.

Marco puts the whistle in his pocket and uses the tone of voice that shows he means business in the firmest way possible.

“Corner. Both of you. Now.”

Jean opens his mouth to protest—

“ _NOW_.”

Eren tucks his tail and scrambles to the nearest available corner, and instead of running—his brain forgets  _walking_  is an option—Jean promptly crab walks, rather awkwardly, to a secluded corner on the other side of the space.

Satisfied, Marco returns to work and plans to give the whistle to someone who can use it properly. Maybe Levi.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #11: Connie bought that whistle. And then forgot he bought it. He probably won't even remember it's his when it works its way back inside the house. 
> 
> NEWS: I am currently accepting prompts on my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and chances are: they'll end up becoming chapters much like this one did. 
> 
> I'm even accepting NSFW requests and a modern!Bootleggers au. So hop on that if you like. Even if you don't want to drop a prompt off surely you'll come by for [official Bootleggers art](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/tagged/skell%20art)


	12. The Artist: or: The French Quarter Spawned American Hipsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He who holds the brush holds the power to create worlds. He who takes the brush and gives the world motion holds the power to tell its story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY 4TH OF JULY TIME TO STEAL THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE 
> 
> No but seriously: happy holiday weekend, and enjoy this lil nugget before I drop a serious bomb on you next chapter. 
> 
> This chapter takes place IMMEDIATELY after chapter 10, as it was originally supposed to be chapter 11 but a schedule slip occurred.

 

Marco takes Jean away from the house for a while.

Eren doesn't voice how much he appreciates it. He only nods from under a pile of blankets and goes back to staring at the pale green of his wall. There's a picture hanging just within his eyesight of Mikasa and himself the day they were brought into the house, a grumpy Levi standing between them with a strong hand gripping Eren's shoulder in comfort.

Levi himself catches Marco as Marco exits Eren's room, and he offers one bit of advice.

"Take him to the Quarter."

Marco stops, confused, and Levi sighs before elaborating and vanishing into Eren's room to perform his—never seen but  _much_ discussed—ritual of getting Eren back to normal.

"Dipshit has ink stains on his clothes sometimes. Take him to the Quarter. You'll see."

So Marco does.

The result is one he’s going to thank Levi for, for the next hundred or so years.

The French Quarter, once simply a poor neighborhood of cheap rental space, has begun to change since the Prohibition was put into place. It was a small change, at first. Artists who needed studio space found the cheap housing and old buildings pleasing. More artists came. Paintings and crafts began to decorate the street up and down. Cheap eateries opened to serve the starving bohemians family made recipes. Living outside of town has left Marco a bit out of the loop with news, but the slow growth of the little street is beginning to trickle to their neck of the woods.

Looking at it now, in the late summer of 1920, it’s an array of color and expression.

Jean's eyes light up the second he spots the first colorful canvas left out to dry.

"W-Wait— What is—?" Jean tentatively breaks from their path to stare at the canvas, a tiny gasp escaping as he examines the picture. Marco doesn't think much of it—it's a painting of the river boats he sees all the time—but to Jean, it may as well be crafted out of gold. "The coloring is amazing, and the  _shading_ — Marco, do you see this shading work on the underside of the boat? How did they  _do_  that!?”

Marco shrugs. "Painted it, I suppose."

Jean becomes frustrated and throws his arms in the air. "Not  _that_. I mean— I've been trying to do this for  _months_ and I can't get it right! I wasted an entire charcoal pencil trying to learn!"

Marco's eyes widen. "You draw?" 

Jean catches himself and blushes a bit, eyes darting to the ground at breakneck speed as one hand begins to awkwardly rub his neck.  

Marco only smiles. "Ya never told me you liked art."

Jean's shame burns straight through his cheeks as he abruptly goes rigid. He sputters, hands fumbling as he attempts to form words, and Marco chuckles at the crinkles forming on his forehead. Jean groans and goes back to staring at the painting. "M'not supposed to, you know."

Marco rolls his eyes. "Don't see why not."

Jean harshly huffs and angles his head to frown at Marco's cheerful freckled face. "I come from a business family. There is no time to ‘diddle around with painting.’”

"Them's your ma's words?" Somewhere behind them, a street performer begins warming up, trumpet belting out a few notes in what will turn into free jazz any minute. A window opens and dirty paint water is thrown out.

Jean's shoulders slump and the tightness Marco recognizes as stress sinks in. "My father, actually.”

"Well, then it's a good thing he ain't you, since it's your life an' all." Marco pats Jean on the shoulder and then uses his grip beckon Jean up, whirling around on one heel to direct them both to more paintings hung up on a fence.

"No, but I have expectations. The business is all I have," Jean mumbles. "The prohibition ruined my plans…"

Marco thins his lips. "When Levi brought you in, you were in college for a business degree."

"Because my parents paid for it," Jean clarifies. "I was working on something when they weren't looking, but now it's completely against the law—"

Marco cuts him off with a giggle that bubbles up from his chest, making Jean pout in mock annoyance. "I hate ta break it to ya, hun, but everything we do is against the law."

Jean throws his hands in the air in desperation. "And I'm cutting it close as it is!"

Marco pats him on the back and offers an easygoing smile. "Well, what was the plan?"

Jean pauses, considering his words carefully. Then he lowers one hand, taking a quick look around to make sure the artist wouldn't swoop down in unholy terror for touching their precious work, and places two fingers on a canvas showcasing a dancing couple. With a mumble of Latin and a swipe of his fingers, the couple begins to move.

Marco's jaw drops. Jean smiles, taking his hand away, and the couple on the canvas begins a fast swing dance to unheard music. The oil-made pair dip and swing and slide, the faceless figures around them joining in as the background musicians mime playing with increasing passion.

"I saw a cartoon once, in the cinema in France," Jean starts. "I remember being fascinated with the movement. So I've spent years studying how the animators do it, and I've been applying it to various mediums."

"That's amazin', Jean." Marco feels the urge to clap for the tiny couple, whose feet are moving them around the dance floor with tiny fury.

Jean blushes and shrugs. "I had greater success with ink than paint, and my latest project was potentially applying this trick to tattoos. The problem I have now is limiting movement. The pictures have minds of their own."  He swipes his fingers on the painting once more with another mumble, and the dancers freeze mid movement. The two of them continue on down the street before the artist notices the poses of the dancers has completely changed. Jean wears a small smirk at showcasing his talent.

Marco's smile returns full force. "It's still amazin', Jean. I bet Erwin would fund you if you told him about it."

Jean's smirk tightens and fades from his face. "No, no— I couldn't. Erwin has a business to run and my work is—”

"Groundbreaking. I bet if the cartoon studios got hold of ya, they'd let you lead the projects," Marco interrupts. "And the tattoo idea… I'd let you design me one."

Jean's face burns bright red. “…really?”

"Sure thing. Design me one and I'll get it done. And make it move so everyone'll know it's yours."

Jean sputters again, that same crinkle from before returning full force. "I can't believe you would say that casually— That's  _permanent_ ink on your skin—"

"So long as it ain't somethin' obscene. My ma would kill me."

Not far behind them, the artist of the dancers notices her canvas has changed since she hung it up that morning. She is very confused, but she finds she prefers the fluid motion of the main couple mid-dip. 

The trumpet player finishes his warm ups and begins a lively jazz set.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #12: Eren finds speaking in Choctaw incredibly soothing, as it reminds him of peaceful days at home with his mother. 
> 
> Be sure to leave a comment or kudos! Comments make my day and the longer the comment the more likely I'll die of smiling. 
> 
> Wanna see extra Booties content? Wanna discuss things about the fic universe? Want pointless trivia? Stop by my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'm always available and currently talking up my next project; Ouroboros, a deconstruction of dystopian sci-fi stories


	13. The Drunk: or: We All Know That ONE Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the thick of it all, maybe allowing the boys to drink was a bad idea in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOOO
> 
> Did you know that I wrote this chapter AGES ago and originally, it was chapter 5 or 6? Yeah, I went back and padded the hell outta this story. Which was better in the long run because the boys relationship progressed better. 
> 
> Enjoy

There are many types of drunk.

There is the cheerful drunk, otherwise known as Hanji. Hanji has a tendency to get loud and giggly and sling their arm around the nearest poor soul and babble about anything ranging from puppies to the way sodas are made with the same unbridled enthusiasm one finds in a child on Christmas morning.

There is the stoic drunk, or simply the Levi drunk. Outwardly, he never shows any sign of having alcohol in his system. In fact, many debate he has never actually  _been_ drunk. Many unfortunates over the years have challenged him to drinking contests only for him to stare them down after stacking all his empty glasses neatly. Very few people in existence know of the incident when he was young and had to be slung over a shoulder and carried to bed. But that was only the one time.

There is the stumbling drunk, like Connie, who manages every time to run into every piece of furniture in the immediate area. He has a record in the local hospital for most injuries delivered by a non-moving object.

There is the hungry drunk, like Sasha, who begins shoving food in her purse and pockets and manages to eat a majority of it before waking up in an odd location the next day. She has a tendency to hide fried chicken in her shirt only to pull out a sandwich later with no memory of putting it there.

There are oodles more, really. The sobbing drunk, the angry drunk, the dancing drunk, the storytelling drunk… When it comes to the boys, only two are aware of their drunken status.

Marco is the touchy drunk. A particularly wild eighteenth birthday led to him finding out his limits with alcohol and in a spectacular move, he had slung his arm around Annie and began to pet her hair and whisper how she was such a good friend. According to the stories, she let this go on for ten minutes out of pure shock before pawning him off to Mikasa. Mikasa had taken advantage of his state to braid his hair while he blabbered on how she was an amazing sister and Eren was lucky to have her.

Eren is the fighting drunk. Wolves have quite varied reactions to drinking— Someone like Mike with incredible muscle mass and years of tolerance can drink like any normal man and actually have a fighting chance of not getting ill. But Eren has no such thing. He and Connie, at the tender young age of seventeen, once stole some expensive liquor from the cabinet in the dining room and hid in the barn to drink it.

Long story short, Eren saw himself in a dirty old mirror and threw the first punch, with a still—sort of—sober Connie screaming, “EREN, NO—” on deaf ears.

Eren's problem is that he always picks fights with  _inanimate objects_.

As for Jean… He has no earthly clue.

He supposes he'll find out soon enough.

Trost is the largest operating bar that Erwin has open inside the city. Underground, discrete, filled with music and dancing and the first choice of quality liquors that comes through their trade— Trost is also the bar that brings in the most money. It's frequented by both trendy upper New Orleans socialites and the bohemians taking up space in the French Quarter. You can find men and women of many creeds filing through the doors for the chance to taste just a fraction of what is offered. Supposedly the fact the bar violates nearly every social stigma the year 1920 lives by is the reason most of the clientele even come.

Let it be said that the youth favor rebellion.

Jean's first time there is a mere week after the disturbing trip to the Walls Living Complex.

It was suggested the great team of Bodt-Kirschstein-Jaeger needed to relax after working so hard all summer, and really, it’s one of many excuses to party. Annie’s come back into town and is going to be staying in the house for a while. Mike’s returned with his pack saying they'd managed to form a business deal with some picky Sicilians. And in a stroke of good luck, they had managed to secure a  _discrete_ partnership with the officers of a nearby precinct. A little brew slipped the officers’ way once a month and in return, the trucks would cease to be pulled over.

So the day Jean Kirschstein goes to his first bar, as a customer and not checking security in daylight hours, is also the day every occupant of the Smith House that is of age comes, too, for an impromptu party that celebrates everything and nothing all at once.

Walking through the doors and being blasted with the loud sounds of jazz, the wizard can’t help but feel a smidgen attacked.

“You're gonna love it, man,” Eren babbles excitedly. “The dance floor is always movin', there's dames everywhere, the music is top of the charts worthy—”

“Maurice is even playin' tonight.” Marco tugs Jean along through the crowd, Eren pushing him from behind towards an empty spot by the bar where a pretty young woman with even prettier hair is filling up glasses. “We'll start ya off slow since you're a liquor virgin—”

“I am not! I've had wine before!”

Eren scoffs and shoves Jean onto a barstool, quickly sliding into the one on Jean’s left and whirling around to the pretty bartender. “Yeah, yeah, Frenchy's had his fancy grape juice with his family dinners. We're talkin'  _real_ liquor. The shit men drink.”

“Let's hope Mike doesn't hear you say that, Eren.” The pretty girl puts down a clean glass and reaches for ice, sending a pearly smile his way. “You know he loves that ‘fancy grape juice.’”

“Let him hear me!” Eren rolls his eyes.

“Petra, start us off with something simple.” Marco folds his hands and gives his most earnest gentlemanly face, drowning out Eren mid-tirade about how Mike needs to ‘fight him like a man.’ “Especially for those two.”

“Baby drinks. Got it.” Petra winks and ignores Eren's affronted squawking noise. She turns toward the tiny blonde near the end of the counter and calls out an order, giving Jean a wide view of the blue translucent wings sticking out of her back. Jean blinks and stares at them even as Petra leaves to answer another order.

“…when did those get there?”

“Dumbass alpha,” Eren grumbles. Jean continues to dumbly point at Petra, ignored. “Stupid big sniffer man and his stupid wine—”

“Eren, your macho alpha wolf battle can cram it for tonight.” Marco leans forward and sends Eren a  _look_  past Jean's perplexed form still staring at Petra's back.  

“He started it!”

“Nope. Quiet. Anything Mike related can wait until tomorrow.” Marco leans back and holds up his hand, somehow effectively shutting Eren up.

Jean dumbly points. “…fairy.”

“Yeah. Petra's a fairy.” Eren slaps his hand down. “So is Christa. They both work behind the bar because their hands are quick.”

Jean looks amazed. Unknown to him, Marco and Eren both wonder why they bother taking him anywhere. “I've never seen their wings out. I didn't know they were…”

“They do that on purpose.” Marco pats his shoulder. “They fold up their wings under clothes so city folk don't harass them. No nerve endings or nothin' so it's not a huge inconvenience.”

Eren lets out a  _tch_. “You can still  _tell_. They're short as shit. Levi was mistaken for one once.”

He and Jean both jump when a dainty hand slams their glasses down. “I heard that.” Christa stares at them both, somehow radiating the proper amount of intimidation despite the bar swallowing her tiny body. “You want me to tell Levi you brought that up again?”

Eren gulps and brings his hands up in a praying gesture. “I will pay you any amount of money not to do that.”

“Have pity on them, Christa. They're idiots,” Marco pacifies. “Jean needs a shot of good luck in his drink. It's his first night.”

Just like that, Christa's anger vanishes and she returns to being the cotton candy sweet princess she’s known for being. “Anything for a nice guy like you, Marco.” She whirls one finger, tapping Jean's glass twice and leaving as it begins to sparkle green.

Jean lifts up the glass and stares. The sparkles are taking the form of four leaf clovers and horseshoes. “…is drinking this going to change my skin color? Or make me glow?”

Marco laughs and takes a sip of his drink, smiling at the flavor. He’s glad the girls know his preference for the sweet stuff. “No. You'll just be incredibly lucky for a few hours.”

“Aw, man, I shoulda' asked for a shot of charisma.” Eren pouts. “I wanted to do somethin' fun tonight.”

“Well, that's what ya get for makin' fun of people,” Marco shoots from the rim of his glass. “What were you even plannin’?”

The wolf shrugs and sniffs at his drink for any poison Christa might have added. “I dunno. Go home with a girl maybe. Dance. Poke Annie's nose and  _not_ get the shit beat outta me.”

“Well, you can still have fun with Jean.” Marco grins.

Eren's face lights up at that and Jean nearly chokes on the lucky concoction he'd finally raised to his lips. Eren makes quick work of  _chugging_ his drink and then shooting up to drag Jean by the front of his shirt. Jean amazingly holds on to his glass, even when Eren practically throws him towards the brightly tiled dance floor.

From his seat, Marco sighs and knows he should probably stay sober.

When Connie appears next to him and demands a round of shots, Marco knows his plans are utterly fucked.

 

 

 

If Eren is considered attractive outside of the bar, and he definitely is, he’s twice as bad inside the bar.

Jean has spent a good amount of time this summer pushing down any stray thought that concerns his coworkers. So who cares if Marco has an extremely broad torso and his ass fills out his pants too well? So who will ever notice Eren has strong shoulders and a small waist? Who in their right mind ever studies Marco's full lips or Eren's bright eyes or the way both of them seem to complement each other just by existing—

Certainly not Jean. Certainly.

He certainly doesn’t need to be ogling Eren now, anyway. Not after Eren’s episode at his house. He'd never seen the wolf so…so… He doesn’t even have a  _word_  for it. It was so strange and terrible.He isn’t sure Eren even needs to be out after that sort of thing. They had taken him home and Levi had damn near dislocated Jean's arm pushing him out of the way to get to the limp wolf still slumped in the backseat.

Jean actually doesn’t know if that was better or worse than Mikasa nearly ripping the door off the truck when she saw what was going on. Both incidents were enough to scare him off after checking with Marco that he was leaving Eren in good hands.

But here Eren is, smiling like it had never happened, taking shots from trays and moving to quick paced jazz in a frenzy that makes Jean's head dizzy.

Or maybe that was the drink. He can’t remember  _when_ he finished the lucky glass and  _when_  Eren handed him something bitter that made his throat feel like fire. All he knows is he’s drinking a lot of it and the room is made of fuzzy lights now.

What’s he thinking about again? Right, right. How he’s  _definitely_ not attracted to Eren. Or Marco. Or men in general.

Totally not.

He's had crushes before. There had been the pretty buxom blonde who he always stared at dumbly in France. Granted, she was an adult and he was a little boy who hadn't even started puberty yet, but he remembers thinking she was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen.

There was also the great big crush he'd had right before moving. Merinette. Merinette had been a cute girl, with a soft blush and plush lips, shiny red curls bouncing whenever she took a step. He'd been staring at her from the back of the class for months before finally landing his first kiss at fifteen. He was sure he was in love from the way his heart beat.

But then he'd gone home and his parents had told him they were leaving.

He never spoke to Merinette again, and that was that.

He'd  _hated_ everyone ever since. The girls in his private school were incredibly vapid ,and he detested them all. They poked at him, prodded for private information, and constantly asked if  _things_ like  _him_ believed in Jesus or if they danced naked around fires in the woods. They only ever gave him attention if they wanted to make fun of him or claim him as some kind of exotic prize. To this day, their drawling words and laughter made him immediately shy away and hide. 

College isn’t much better. He presented himself as normal by the start of it, so he’s mostly left alone. One or two girls struck him as pretty in his first year, but he discovers the ones who manage to work their way into college aren’t much interested in boys. He finds that agreeable, and the farthest he’d gone had been to help a classmate study in the library.

But boys? No. Never an option. In France he'd only been just discovering crushes and feelings, just barely exploring in his tiny village that didn't seem connected to the world, and when he came to America, he discovered very quickly there are  _rules._

You don't date outside of your  _social class_.

You don't date anyone who isn't your  _color_.

And you especially don't date  _men_.

Those are the rules if he’s expected to have any kind of life. Those are the rules for being a respected member of society. So as far as he’s concerned, Jean Kirschstein is  _not_  interested in his coworkers, who happen to violate all three rules.

Never mind that Eren and Marco seem to break those rules all the time. Jean truly wonders how they can be happy that way, doing things that will get them hung if they’re caught. He'd kill for that kind of carefree living. He has his parents breathing down his neck these days, telling him to go to the next semester of classes, telling him to get the business degree, to learn to run the company—

He wishes he could tell them he doesn’t want to do any of that.

All he really wants to do at the moment is watch Eren dance.

He fails to realize Eren isn't dancing anymore until he's softly knocked on the skull. “You've been starin' for ten minutes, Nancy.”

“Hrph?” is Jean's dignified reply. Eren looks so good in the lights of the club. The yellows contrast with his dark skin so well Jean's drunken mind almost begins to compose poetry.

Eren sways where he stands, alcohol swarming his senses, and he lets out one breathy laugh before leaning against Jean and walking them off the floor. He turns his head looking for an empty table or booth to collapse in. He doesn't seem to notice Jean staring intently at his face. “Surprised you haven't dropped yet. Tha'ssum hardcore shit you're drinkin'.”

Jean shrugs. His sense of taste is shot at this point. “Want some?”

“Prolly shouldn't… Hell yeah, gimme—” Eren snatches the glass, letting the amber liquid inside slide down his throat with much more ease than what Jean possessed. Jean gulps and stares at the muscles in Eren's neck as Eren swallows.

Eren's pressed against him so nicely. Jean’s mind flashes back to the car ride from last week—Eren nuzzling his head into Jean’s chest, letting out a canine whine when Jean attempted to separate—

In the distance a flushed Marco finally spots them from a booth with Ymir and Annie. Ymir's wing feathers take up a good portion of the booth all by themselves, but Marco points to the space beside him anyway. He waves them over and Eren begins steering them both in that direction.

Jean's eyes glaze over, lazily rolling over the contour of Eren's profile in the lights. They settle on his lips.

That night, Jean Kirschstein finds out exactly what type of drunk he is.

He's the drunk who makes horrible decisions.

As they close in on the booth, he softly cups Eren's face and steers him up for a bruising kiss that sends him spinning much more than Maurice Bodt's insane jazz music or those weirdly named drinks that don’t burn nearly as bad as Eren's lips on his.

In a spare thought he doesn't remember the next day, he realizes kissing Eren feels a million times better than kissing little Merinette when he was fifteen.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #13: Wolves have HORRIBLE hangovers since alcohol is one of those things that aren't good for canines. Mike can withstand it a bit better thanks to his big buff body and years of tolerance. Eren is gonna puke his lil brains out the next day. 
> 
> SO. I have a [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I tweet about fic progress and trivia and desperately need followers willing to read my 3 AM rambles
> 
> And I have a [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I post extra material and answer questions. 
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment, as they are my life blood and keep me motivated


	14. The Courting: or: Mating Guides for the Non-Wolf Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike is prime wolf dad material.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe one day I'll update on a schedule like I want to. 
> 
> FANART THANKS CORNER: 
> 
> paintdripps for her Booties!Eren: [here](http://paintdripps.tumblr.com/post/124710223965/shingeki-no-unicorns-bootleggers-eren-is-my%20)
> 
> And Viella-Art for their wonderful Eren sketch: [here](http://viella-art.tumblr.com/post/123545723553/have-you-ever-thought-of-drawing-bootleggers-art)

 

 

 

Marco smells nice.

Eren's known this since he first met the guy. They were scrawny kids at the time. Marco's grin was still toothy and Eren's pants still hung off his thin waist even with a belt, but the instinct that lurked deep in Eren’s mind had immediately informed him Marco smelled very nice. Eren merely shrugged it off.

Ever since his turning, this is normal for him. People have their own smells. Levi smells like soap and clean cotton shirts, but he and Mikasa share this underlying _musk_. It isn't overpowering but it informed Eren they aren’t normal by any means. That smell—the smell of faint undead and bloodsuckers—identifies them as damphir. Erwin smells like aftershave and has an undercurrent of dominance. Not intimidating, not enough to gather fear, but the way he carries himself makes himself known as a leader. Hanji smells like spices and magic and happiness. Armin smells like books.

Other wolves smell different. Eren can't put it into words. He finds he never can when it comes to the more basic of his instincts, but he knows it deep in his chest. Wolves taint the air around them, and Eren can smell clear as day when another wolf is near. He can smell them when he crosses into their territory just as he can smell when they cross into his. He can smell _himself_ sticking to things, to people and clothes and cars. The underlying hint of _him_ is what helps him keep track of his pack.

But Marco? Marco just smells _nice_.

Eren's always enjoyed his scent. He can't name all the different things about it but Marco's scent just seems to know to calm and ground him. He noticed when they were younger, still just boys, and shrugged it off as another thing that came with no longer being human. Getting older, it became harder to ignore.

Especially after the incident in the barn. Eren still shivers at the memory of Marco's gasps and groans, and every year when the dreaded mating season rolls around, it's those pretty sounds that drive him crazy when he's trying to sleep.

That isn't to say Eren's been pining for Marco all this time, because the more he thinks about it, the more he's sure it's not true. Pining involves constantly thinking about that person and having butterflies. It involves wishing for things and begging for attention. And through the years, he's been very comfortable with just being Marco's friend.

The occasional sex not counting as friendship-based. _That_ is a result of hormones and having a safe place to experiment without the public coming at you with a baseball bat.

Fucking mating season. If he's not horny, he's pissed off. Stupid wolf instinct.

Anyway, when it all boils down to it, he's just been _comfortable_ around Marco all these years. He enjoys Marco’s company and the conversations they have, and in all that time, he's dated some great people without feeling like something was missing.

But lately…

_Lately_  it's been feeling odd. Marco's scent isn't just nice anymore; Marco's scent is damn _amazing_ and Eren _loves_ it. He craves to rub his own scent into it and he's been doing slow work of it by staying close. He sleeps in Marco's bed and he steals Marco's shirts. Every time Marco's scent is tinted with Eren’s own, Eren feels nothing but pride.

And then there's Jean.

He didn't quite notice at first since Jean always wears fresh pressed clothes and showers every time so much as a speck touches his skin, but Jean… Jean also smells nice.

Jean smells like graphite and paint and _stress_ ,but also of magic and wonder.

That same pull Marco has that makes Eren want to rub Marco down and coat him in Eren’s scent comes from Jean, too.

Eren doesn't really know what to make of that, but where human logic fails, the wolf in the back of his head only tells him to continue to pick at Jean and touch him at any chance. Where Marco gets affectionate nuzzles, Jean receives play.

And in the truck, when it's just the three of them and Eren takes a deep breath, it smells like home. Not like motor oil or alcohol or the cheap wrapping covering whatever charms they're delivering, but just…home. Jean and Marco and Eren all mixed together into something pleasant.

He hasn't said anything about it, but the morning after the bar where he's battling a headache in Marco's bed, keeping an eye on the puke bucket set out for his use only, a new idea keeps bouncing around and he still isn't sure he has the words to give it form. All he can do is keep touching Marco's skin as Marco sleeps and revel in the content noises the larger man makes when Eren runs his fingers along muscle.

Eventually Marco stirs, and Eren can feel him wake only to relax back into the mattress. Eren takes a deep breath and that lovely scent, that amazing piece of Marco, soothes the horrible ache all over that comes with drinking. There's a sliver of bittersweet, though, when he realizes Jean's scent from where he rubbed himself against Eren's torso is getting faint.

There's a myriad of emotions welling up from all this. From himself and Marco as horny teenagers to Jean and his pleasant smell to that damn kiss, and Eren can only express it by kissing Marco's neck and uttering one sentence that doesn't seem to convey what he means at all.

“…you smell nice.”

For some reason that sentence makes the wolf in him content, as if he's correctly let it all out.

The human in him knows it's much more complicated, but he's about to be sick from alcohol poisoning of the canine kind so he can't begin to fathom _why_.

When he jumps off the bed to empty his stomach into the bucket, Eren realizes he needs to talk to another wolf about this.

 

 

“I thought you might turn up.”

Mike's cabin in the local wolf community always feels a bit like home. Eren's familiar enough with Mike's pack and their little grouping of cabins that he barely tilts his neck in customary submission before Mike claps his hand on Eren's shoulder and welcomes him in.

They end up settling on the back porch, dangling their legs over the grass while Nanaba strips a log in the yard.

“Personal project?” Eren asks.

“Addition to the cabin. We're putting a new room in.” Mike's voice carries a hint of pride as he watches his mate work, a smile blooming before he focuses his attention on Eren. “So, what brings you over?”

Eren slouches and an annoyed frown takes over. “Things.” He pauses. “Wolf things.”

Mike smirks. A fond memory of thirteen-year-old Eren saying the same thing finds its way to his mind and it's comforting knowing the kid hasn't changed _too_ much. “It always is.”

Eren fidgets, staring at the grass before he huffs and mutters, “Marco smells nice.” He still thinks the statement makes no sense, but Mike only nods. That small act eases too much of Eren’s tension, relief that he’s  _understood_  giving him the urge to speak more. “He smells  _really_  nice, and I don’t get  _why_. We’ve known each other for years and all of a sudden, I can’t stop gettin’ in his space.”

Mike hums.

“Which don't make no damn sense, 'cause before this summer, I've been perfectly fine 'round him. Always thought he smelled nice, but like…you know, how Armin or Mikasa smell nice?” Eren runs one hand through his hair, patting back sweaty strands clinging to his forehead in the groggy humidity of the summer air. The tree branches above him move in a breeze he can't really feel and Mike rolls his shoulders before speaking.

“You know the day Nanaba and I met, I told her up front I liked how she smelled.” He smiles a bit, that same dopey grin that always makes him look silly when Nanaba comes up in conversation. “We were ten. She slapped me.”

This doesn't surprise Eren at all.

“Then the summer after I turned eighteen, around the time of the yearly retreat, I started noticing things like her scent or her laugh or her strength more. Suddenly it was fascinating. So I decided to court her.” Nanaba turns around from her work to wipe sweat from her brow, picking splinters out of her fingers and offering a wave to Eren now that she sees he's present. “I offered her daisies and she kicked me in the ribs.”

“You always said the first step ends in failure with wolves,” Eren recites from memory. “An easily impressed wolf is an easily swayed wolf, and not the right one for you.”

“Yep. Courting another wolf is an experience.” Mike leans back, looking to the clouds and sniffing the air to make sure rain isn't coming. It still smells far off. He has more than enough time to move the log to a dry space before it swells. “Courting humans is different.”

“Courting humans?” Eren's posture straightens up, confusion marring his features. “I thought—”

“Looking back, I can't believe we didn't cover that with you,” Mike interrupts. “But yeah, it happens. Nanaba's parents are a good example. Her pop courted her ma right out of Shreveport and brought her here.”

“And you're telling me this, why?” Eren's brow rises and his shoulders hunch in apprehension, shifting away from Mike's relaxed form.

“The first step to courting a wolf is a meager present for attention and getting rejected. First step to courting a human is to establish interest. You do anything with Marco early on in the summer?”

“Um…” Eren thinks back, back before Jean ever arrived and work wasn't so heavy. He feels cool metal against his skin and suddenly it hits him. “I dug up a bunch of tree roots he needed and asked him to make me a charm outta my key.”

“Mhm.” Mike nods. “Second step is to spread scent to mark the target.”

Eren's eyes widen. Sleeping in Marco's bed, rubbing against him in the truck, _licking his face just because_ —

“Offering spoils of the hunt or handmade gifts comes next, just like wolf courting,” Mike continues.

Eren slowly realizes he gave Marco half the ducks he caught with Sasha during the _zombie_ incident.

“Protective behavior and aggression towards outsiders.” Mike's counting on his fingers now, just as Eren flashes back to Jean's first few days on the job where all Eren did was try to exclude the wizard and call him names. “Heavy thought towards the future—”

Eren interrupts with a small voice before Mike says anything else that makes his head hurt. He’s been  _courting_  Marco.  _Courting Marco_. Some small part of Eren, the teenage spirit remaining in his descent into adulthood, screams that it isn’t possible because he’s been  _avoiding_  the courting nonsense for years.

“I also…think Jean smells nice.” It's scary to think about, because if he's been _courting_ Marco, then there isn't any room to include Jean in all of this. Even if Eren fights with the wizard, the last thing Eren wants is to lead Jean on. Or is Eren going to lose interest in Marco because of Jean's presence? Things like this are why he avoids wolves his age. Too much drama involved in courting. “He kind of…macked on me in Trost and…it's what made me start thinkin' about all this…”

“I know.” Mike nods.

“You _know_? The _fuck_ , Mike?” Eren's teeth bare themselves but Mike growls, silencing the anger boiling in Eren's stomach with a reminder just whose territory he’s in at the moment.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Mike continues. “At first I was a little concerned, two at once is a thing normally older alphas do since they have their lives together, but you've never been one to do the practical thing.”

Eren bites his lip and ignores the jab at his impulsiveness. “Two at once?”

Mike shrugs. Sometimes it's envious how casual he can be about the whole wolf thing. Eren supposes it's because he was born with it. He learned from infancy what to do while Eren was thrown in the water without swimming lessons. “Not too unusual. Humans think these kinds of relationships are one man with a lot of wives and even more kids, but in communities like ours, multiple mates is serious business. The biggest concern is if you can take care of them.”

“I can have _two_. At _once_.” Eren squints and waits for Mike to say “just kidding, time to pick only one.”

“That's what I said. You treat the other one a bit differently, more aggression than affection, but he's slowly catching up and that little bar macking might have sped it along.” Mike twirls one hand to visualize the speeding, keeping his tone nonchalant.

“Oh, my god.”

Mike pats Eren's shoulder, mindful to keep it brief lest he spread his scent on the kid. “You really have nothing to worry about. At the rate you're going, you only have a few steps left.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I know how the rest of a courting goes.” Eren nods. That small teenage speck in his brain is still screaming, _No, no how dare you? You want to be free, dammit_ —but the idea of finishing what he unintentionally started is pulling too hard at his chest. Back home Marco is probably brewing up something for Eren's post-hangover stomachaches, and somewhere in the Garden District a bleary Jean is either sleeping or agonizing over what happened. Eren stands up and bows his head to Mike, bearing his neck once more in respect to the pack alpha, before starting off towards the truck.

“Thanks, Mike.”

Mike shrugs. That's always been his response to Eren's troubles. Just a shrug, like it was no problem. “Oh, by the way…”

Eren pauses mid-step.

“There's an extra step in human courting. You really should tell them what you're doing. They don't understand the mate bond and their consent is kind of important.”

Eren grimaces. Marco… Marco would be easy on that front. He and Marco are borderline dating as it is sometimes. Marco's been in Eren's life for so long that hope is easy to form around the idea of Marco being _his_.

But Jean?

Eren nods stiffly and leaves Mike's cabin behind. He may or may not fast walk to the truck.

Turning the key in the ignition, a whiff of Jean's expensive soap hits Eren from the driver’s seat and he feels his fingers clench around the wheel.

Jean isn't like them. Jean belongs to a different world, and his stay in theirs is only an escape.

Besides, Jean doesn't like men. He's made that abundantly clear.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #14: Eren's middle name is Hashilli, which is actually a giant werewolf joke this boy is the Bootleggers!verse Remus Lupin
> 
> As always I welcome people to my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I talk fic stuff and post extra content 
> 
> Comment and kudos, as it keeps me alive to write more. No seriously. Feedback is so good every time someone writes a long comment I smile for days.


	15. The Party: or: Wizards Make Poor Socialites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just want to jump ship. Maybe the river mermaids will take you in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait, my editor is once again doing a bunch of stuff so I had to wait a week to get this chapter back from her. 
> 
> Say, are you folks interested in an ongoing plot for this story? Sorry if you aren't, but STARTING WITHIN THE NEXT FEW CHAPTERS, we're setting up a month long overarching plotline! The Long Halloween arc should last about a month if I don't fudge up and need to take extra time, but get ready for actual plot and drama this October. After that we'll resume slice of life activity until my muse calls upon me again. 
> 
> BOOTLEGGERS EXTRAS:  
> Extra content that IS canon, including [A BRIEF LOOK INTO MARCO'S BACKSTORY](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/post/125204164218/eremarco-3-3-3-3) and [THIS SNIPPET ABOUT TEN YEAR OLD EREN](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/post/124904383728/change-a-bootleggers-extra)
> 
> FANART THANKS CORNER: 
> 
> Pencil-Only for their amazing sketches of [the boys](http://pencil-only.tumblr.com/post/126469096413) and a GORGEOUS [Marco portrait](http://pencil-only.tumblr.com/post/126719318393)
> 
> And hello-aceofspace for their sketches of [Eren and Marco](http://hello-aceofspace.tumblr.com/post/126408999349) and [the trio lounging around](http://hello-aceofspace.tumblr.com/post/126544093434)

 

Jean hates parties.

Well, that's not entirely true. He likes parties. Ever since joining Eren and Marco, he's gotten fairly attached to the little get-togethers at the Smith estate, where stories and songs and dances get passed around a campfire and sodas and flasks are whipped out with equal fervor. It's cozy and friendly and Jean feels almost at home surrounded by others for once.

But _these_ parties? Lord have mercy, he detests them.

Part of having a business is schmoozing with other business owners. The men all wear suits and the ladies all wear fancy dresses and pearls, and for several hours, the idle rich of the world stand around and talk about their money and what they do with it. And as for heirs to the business? They stand around and flirt with other heirs to hopefully marry into another family and keep the cycle going.

Jean's been steadily going to these affairs since he was fifteen. The first few times were terrifying. His parents all but abandoned him to talk business deals and Jean was left at the mercy of teenagers who had grown up knowing how to play their roles. But within the first few years, he figured out his routine.

Grab a drink.

Grab something to chew on from the offered food.

Find a secluded corner and stay there. Stare at the architecture. Study the angles and how he can replicate it later with shaky hands and a pencil.

Deviating from the routine at all led to nosy adults who asked questions he didn't know how to answer or rude teenagers who _knew_ he was different and wanted him to show it more so they could laugh. He could only take so many “So are you inheriting the company?” questions before he felt the need to burn to the ground whatever venue they were using.

As it is, that impulse would be especially bad. This party is on a river boat.

The boat itself is actually very nice. Rails line the decks covered in fairy lights, and lanterns hang from above to cast everything in a lovely yellow glow. The smell of smoke drifts from the kitchens and tumbles into the senses with the sound of the paddles in the back moving everyone deeper into the Mississippi river. The jazz coming from somewhere in the rear is helping Jean stay grounded. The tunes are erratic, trumpets blaring at tempos that resemble fast heartbeats; hearing it all just reminds him of that night on the docks. Watching boats just like this one slowly pass by while Eren got mud on the seat and Marco smiled like he didn't want to be anywhere else.

God, he's fucked it all up.

It's been three days since he kissed Eren at the bar. Three days since he overstepped and promptly blacked out only to wake up in his own bed nursing a splitting headache. 

Every adult around him is holding a drink and it's only serving to remind him of what he did. (The icing on the cake is that he _deliberately_ remembers driving this goddamn champagne order in; these damn socialites are wasting booze he broke his back unloading.)

This doesn't stop Jean from grabbing a champagne flute for his corner. If he's going to wallow in misery, he's going to do it correctly. Finding a secluded spot on the first level of the boat, Jean takes small sips of his drink and stares down into the muddy water. He wonders how pissed Eren is at him. Or would Eren even remember? Eren was drinking way more than him, so maybe he was panicking over nothing—

Oh, wait. Marco saw. He was looking right at them when Jean decided to be stupid. Goddammit.

Jean groans and leans his head against the cool wood of a support beam. One of the fairy lights is dangerously close to sticking him in the eye but he can care less.

There's a soft gurgle from the water and Jean cracks one eye open.

There's a blonde head trailing hair by the boat. A smiling wet face peeks up at Jean through soaked bangs and even in the soft light, he can see the slits of gills peeking out from a thin throat. His misery is forgotten for a moment as the mermaid lifts one webbed hand and waves from the river.

Jean musters a small smile and waves back. He didn't think they came up this far, being sea creatures and all, but maybe the boats attract them. The mermaid smiles brighter at getting his attention and swims closer.

Now, the water in New Orleans isn't particularly pretty. The river deposits all its mud in the city's bay as it meets the ocean, leaving the water as a whole an ugly brown that barely seems blue in the right light. But through the tinted water, Jean can see beautiful silver scales gleaming and twinkling with the lights on the rails. Jean's smile turns a little more genuine. She really is pretty. Her hair floats around in curtains as it touches the water, and the swirls they make in the current make his fingers twitch for a pencil.

He opens his mouth to speak to her when something spills onto her head.

“'AY! Git! Git outta here, ya damn siren!”

The mermaid recoils and makes a gurgling sound Jean thinks _may_ be an affront. Noise to his left makes Jean turn his head, narrowing his eyes at a group of men throwing their champagne at the mermaid with malice. Jean recognizes a few of them. Trading heads and bankers, with slicked hair and stomachs that barely fit into their suits; they're the same kind of nosy bastards who spend these parties drinking themselves into a stupor and leering at young heiresses.

The mermaid dodges a champagne flute and shrieks, glaring at the boat before splashing away. The men start cheering and laughing.

Jean's fists are clenched, and he leaves his drink to start towards them—

“Don't. She can run, if you start something you're trapped on the boat with them.” A small hand grabs his arm, yanking him back gently and pressing his drink back into his hand. Jean takes a deep breath to glare at the intruder before his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Armin?”

Armin offers a smile, letting go of Jean's arm to lean comfortably against the railing. He's dressed nicely, Jean can see the signs of a tailored personal suit, and has his hair combed back and fixed into a half ponytail. It's the first time Jean has seen him without books everywhere or papers in his hand.

“I… I didn't know you'd be here,” Jean begins.

“Erwin is here. Second level, chatting with your parents.” Armin swirls his drink and takes a sip, curling his lips in distaste. “Eugh, I hate alcohol.”

“My parents? _Merde_.” Jean grimaces. He can feel a rock forming in his stomach at the thought. He can practically hear his mother going on and on about “Jeanbo and his work” and how “My baby is finally joining the business…” Oh, lord, he hopes Erwin isn't going to slip about anything. If his parents know what he’s actually doing, they’ll probably die. Or explode. Maybe both.

Armin pats his arm in sympathy. “He's telling them how amazing you are at your _internship_ with him. Your father is glowing at the praise.”

Jean relaxes a bit, exhaling with relief. “Why did he bring you anyway? I only ever see you cooped up inside the house.”

Armin shrugs. “I don't like going to bars. Plus this helps for when I eventually take over some projects…” Jean decides not to pry. The look in Armin's eye at the words  _take over_  slightly scares him. Armin smiles, a smile that isn't very innocent, and runs a finger along the edge of his champagne flute. He glances at Jean before continuing. “Besides, Eren's been asking about you.”

Jean flinches.

“You haven't been by to pick up your pay from your last job. It's sitting on his dresser waiting for you.”

Jean blinks. He blinks again. He's very still as he slowly looks down at Armin, who is nonchalantly watching a pair of giggly teenagers flirt by the staircase to the second level.

“That's— That's all he said?” It can't just be that. Eren loves to go on tangents. Did he send Armin to let Jean know Eren’s going to punch Jean in the face for what he did?

“Yes. That you need to collect your pay before he spends it himself.” Armin nods. “He hasn't actually been seen much for the past few days. Went to the wolf community outside town to see Mike.”

Jean's head perks up. Community? He hasn't heard of one of those.

“And when he came back, he and Marco holed themselves up in Marco's studio.” Armin shrugs, taking a sip of his drink before grimacing again. “Spent a long time inside. Must have been serious.”

Jean's head dips down again. Of course. They’re _both_ angry at him. They had history, Jean knew that much, and maybe he screwed up more than he realized—

Armin's voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife. “I think they're dating now.”

“What?” Jean tries and fails to keep his voice even. It cracks and makes him cough to cover up his nervousness, which Armin doesn't comment on and pretends he didn't hear.

“When they finally came out, they seemed a bit closer. They talk to each other a lot more. A little touchy and affectionate, too. I'm glad, though. They almost dated once, but then _the thing_ happened and Marco couldn't handle it; but that's a personal story.” Armin pauses, tilting his head to look at Jean and taking note of the green expression crossing his face. “Are you okay?”

Jean clamps down the gurgle trying to form in his throat. There's a sinking feeling in his chest, pulling his lungs down to his feet.

He shouldn't feel this sad. They’ve never been an option for him anyway. If they’re willing to risk their lives and be together, then good for them.

Jean answers in a tight voice, gripping his own arm to stay stable. “I'm just peachy.”

“All right…” Armin doesn't sound like he believes him, but he doesn't pry. “You should come by to pick up your money. And, you know, see people. They miss you.”

Jean hardly believes it but he nods.

“Oh, and Eren isn't mad about the kiss. That wasn't the first time that's happened.”

Jean turns red and sputters. Armin only smiles in response and waits for a server to pass to place his empty glass on a tray. Jean makes a choking noise, trying so hard to make words but failing, and Armin gives a small wave before walking toward the stairs.

“I'll see you back at the house then. Have a nice night.”

Jean makes a noise that could be counted as a “See you, too,” but it sounds more like “ _Hnnnng_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #15: Armin's been watching the awkward feelings tap dance all summer. It's his soap opera. 
> 
> I have a [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and a [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I talk about my fics and frequently post trivia and extra content. 
> 
> Don't forget to comment and kudos! Comments (especially long ones) fill me with glee and make me pump out chapters that much faster. A happy author is a productive author.


	16. The Shower: or: As Seen Through The Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In old times meteors were seen as the sky falling. Here it's only metaphorical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOO
> 
> Half of the October arc is written and ready at this point and I'm sure you're all gonna love it. This begins the first setup TO that arc and I'm so very pleased with it. 
> 
> FANART THANKS TO: 
> 
> pencil-only for their work on [Jean](http://pencil-only.tumblr.com/post/127563468288) and [Eren](http://pencil-only.tumblr.com/post/127021326093)
> 
> hello-aceofspace for their [Marco](http://hello-aceofspace.tumblr.com/post/127572603684)

 

Lying down at the right angle in Marco's bed lets them see the meteors fall through the window.

They had started out the night on Marco's porch, leaning back with awe as the twinkling lights fell, but with night comes mosquitoes and neither can complain about cuddling up in the soft quilts of Marco's bed. They don't bother to turn on the lights or fetch any candles. The moonlight from the clear sky colors Marco's studio just right to let them enjoy the shower at their own slow pace.

And enjoy they did, lying side-by-side watching the heavens move in comfortable silence.

“You don't _have_ to go through with it.” Eren's fingers dance along the top of Marco's hand, softly tracing circles and shapes into brown skin. His voice is just as soft, almost muffled by the screams of the cicadas outside. “I mean, you can back out anytime you wanna. You ain't obligated.”

Marco's lips turn upward, the larger boy turning his hand upwards as an invitation for Eren to thread their fingers together. Eren hesitates, looking to his eyes for confirmation, before slowly accepting. Even in the dark, Marco can see Eren's cheeks flush red. He's always been a blusher.

“I'm not lettin' you do this 'cuz I feel obligated.” Marco runs his thumb along the back of Eren's hand in assurance. He feels a shiver of pleasure run through Eren's frame and that only motivates him more. “I _like_ you, Eren. Lettin' you woo me is better than sittin' out at bars waitin' and prayin' there's at least one other gay man in New Orleans.”

Eren huffs a bitter laugh. “The cops are settin' guys up in New York. Only a matter a' time before they get down here with that shit.”

“Even better for me then. Pretty sure you ain't a cop.” Marco smiles just a bit more, lifting their joined hands to press a kiss to Eren's fingers. Eren makes a muffled squeak and Marco hides his elation against their hands.

“You don't know for sure. Nile might'a recruited me last time he picked me up.”

“You're the laziest cop I've ever seen then. Pretty sure the barn outside has a moonshine and potion operation.”

“Scandalous.” Eren shakes his head. They both chuckle, watching the window and the streaks of light for a minute before Eren speaks up again. “D'you remember when we nearly dated?”

Marco's smile falters. He remembers. He remembers all too well. “Yeah. Yeah, I… I'm sorry about that.”

Eren's hand squeezes, and he turns his head to nuzzle against Marco's arm. “You don't gotta be sorry. You were havin' a rough time. Woulda been poor taste if I tried to put moves on ya.”

Marco leans into Eren's nuzzling, craning his head just a bit more to see a meteor fall outside. “You still took me to a movie.”

“Yeah, but I got us tickets to a comedy. You needed to laugh.” Eren's hand squeezes again, and he rolls to face Marco with his cheeks still flushed. “But…back then, did ya really _wanna_?”

“'Course,” Marco answers. “I already said so. I like you, Eren.”

“This is about more than that, though.” Eren frowns.

“I know. Wolves mate for long term, and I'm pretty giddy that you think I'm worthy.” Marco smiles wide, making Eren's frown fade. “I don't wanna live a lie, Eren. I don't wanna lie to some poor girl and see men in bars on the side. That kinda life ain't for me. Havin' a real relationship is somethin' I never thought I'd get.”

“And you're sure you're okay, now?” Eren lifts his head, blue-green meeting doe brown, and Marco squeezes his hand to answer.

“Perfectly fine.”

“That's good.” Eren puts his head back down, holding their joined hands close and letting out a deep sigh of contentment. “I like when you're happy.”

Marco hums. “You think Jean'll ever get to know? About this?”

Eren stiffens, and his eyes shoot down to his feet. “He'll find out when he pulls his head outta his ass. Not like he'll want this anyway…”

“Don't judge too early,” Marco scolds.

“Yeah, yeah, _Mom_ , I won't.” Eren rolls his eyes before scooting closer, settling down against Marco's side. He breathes in the scent of ground herbs and face paint, eyelids slowly sliding shut. Marco smiles as Eren's breathing evens out. When the soft snores start, he cranes his head back to get a better view of the window.

Does he really want this?

The warmth in his chest tells him yes. Yes, he does. He's finally allowed to have this.

They will have to conquer the bump that is Jean, especially since he seems intent on avoiding them at the moment. He knows Jean looks at them when he thinks they won't notice, but Marco hasn't felt the need to bring it up. Maybe Jean's okay with doing the things Marco can't.

Finding a girl and pretending everything is okay.

Acting like the idea of marriage isn't terrifying.

Or maybe Jean's just as scared as Marco was, back when Marco first started giving the subject thought.

Eren shifts against Marco's side and his worries alleviate a little. He wasn't lying when he told Eren he was okay. Years ago he couldn't handle _this_ , couldn't handle the intimacy…but now? Now he feels just right about it.

Now Marco feels like things may be okay.

He isn't sure when he feels the urge to get up, sometime long after Eren falls asleep, but he slowly rises from the bed and pads to the unfinished bathroom. Reiner and Bertholdt are still installing everything and the plumbing isn't finished, but the sink works and that's all Marco really needs. His face feels grimy with sweat and he can't sleep with it caked on.

The moonlight from the window reflects off the basin and gives the little washroom light, letting Marco rinse himself off without reaching for the string to the light.

He yawns, patting his face dry with a towel, before he meets eyes with his reflection. He pauses when he realizes bright yellow is staring back instead of soft brown.

His reflection isn't holding a towel.

For a moment, Marco doesn't move. The towel slips from his fingers and falls to the floor.

His reflection stares at him with an angry frown.

The sound of nighttime fades from the bathroom, cicadas and frogs replaced by Marco's heartbeat pounding in his ears. His breathing speeds but he pays no notice, swallowing the knot in his throat when his reflection moves his mouth to speak.

Marco stumbles back.

 

“ _Stop running.”_

 

His hand fumbles for the doorknob, scrabbling along the aged wood of the door and collecting chipping paint under his fingernails.

 

“ _Stop running.”_

 

Marco desperately jerks at the knob, twisting rapidly and cursing the rusty metal for getting stuck. “No, no, not this again, not again—”

 

“ _Stop RUNNING!”_

 

“No! Leave me alone!” The door finally gives and Marco all but falls over, tripping over his feet to leave, to leave the reflection reaching out with angry eyes that he remembers from his nightmares.

Marco slams the door and presses his arms against the wood, breathing heavily with his heartbeat becoming a wild drum in his chest. The voice from the mirror vanishes. Cicada screams and frog croaks return, gently, joined by the distant yapping of the coyotes that like to circle Eren's territory.

Marco remembers those eyes.

He _remembers those eyes._

Eren's head rises from the bed from the noise. The werewolf blinks, tired and a little miffed that Marco isn't in bed with him.

“Somethin' wrong?”

Marco swallows. His arms are still shaking. The old memories he fought hard to forget are coming back, making bile rise in his throat. The same fear from when he was younger begins to rear its head.

Looking back, this is a lot like when he told Eren ‘no’ when they were younger.

And…he really doesn't want to repeat that. Not now. Not when he's _happy_.

Marco musters up the best fake smile he can and pushes away from the door, trying his hardest to stop shaking by the time he lies down next to Eren and draws the quilts up. “…no. Nothin's wrong. Saw a mama spider with babies. Got spooked is all.”

Eren stares at him, sleepy eyes confused but questioning. He inches closer and wraps his arms around Marco's frame. The shaking finally stops when the warmth from Eren's body starts spreading under the blankets. Marco stares at the wall as Eren's breathing evens out again. The peaceful nighttime silence overtakes his studio once more and it's like he never got up at all.

Marco spends the night too afraid to look at the window.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #16: Marco's secret has already been stated unintentionally by Eren, in the extra material 
> 
> AS ALWAYS don't forget to check out my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I talk about fic progress and post extra material 
> 
> Comments and kudos make for a happy author, and a happy author writes more chapters~


	17. The Bayou: or: Southern Cuisine is Exactly Like You Think It Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't knock it till you try it. Preferably fried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of posting: tomorrow is my birthday (YAY TURNING 20 YA'LL) and October's chapters are crawling along in production. September has about two chapters left. And each one carries a hint about the events coming to pass. I hope you don't mind this sort of filler but most efforts are being put into making sure October flows correctly and stays consistent. 
> 
> I'm also attempting to build an official playlist, but 8tracks is mean and it's taking a bit. 
> 
> FANART THANKS CORNER: 
> 
> pencil-only's [Eren](http://pencil-only.tumblr.com/post/128882137073/im-thinkin-a-bootieseren-doing-b2-if-youd-be)
> 
> hello-aceofspace's [Marco](http://hello-aceofspace.tumblr.com/post/127572603684/for-one-shingekicornwrites-who-did-an-open-request)
> 
> no-euclidianos's [Jean](http://no-euclidianos.tumblr.com/post/128579071121)

 

 

Things are…weird. In a way.

Jean doesn't need any kind of consultation to prove that. He knew things were _going_ to be weird when he bit back the scream lodged in his throat and went back to the Smith property to report for work.

He came by like he has all summer, picked up his pay when Eren threw it in his face with an order stating “Don't fuckin’ ditch us like that you asshole,” and actually stayed to talk with people. But the entire time he was torn between seeking out Eren and Marco and avoiding their gazes entirely.

It's like a game of tug-o-war. Some part of him, some twisted part that's been forcing his eyes to rove Eren's smile and Marco's arm muscles all summer, whispers that he needs to see them. He needs to make sure he hasn't completely ruined the friendship he's managed to build. The other and more rational part of him shouts that he needs to give them space. Jean listens to this part. He persistently listens to this part.

Despite the fact the three of them are crammed into a small boat without much personal space afforded. Really, it must take talent to keep your eyes focused on muddy bayou water for over an hour. Jean's sure the trees and hanging moss are just as pretty as Marco says they are, but if he's one thing, he's stubborn.

It's half an hour into their boat voyage that Jean breaks his staring match with a patch of moss floating by to quickly flick his gaze to Eren's shoes. The werewolf is leaning halfway out the boat, looking into the water with intent and occasionally dipping in his hand in splashes.

“Um… What are we here for again?” Jean asks.

“Gunther lost his head,” Eren answers.

Marco rolls his eyes. “Again?”

Eren shrugs, continuing his…whatever it is with the water without looking back. “He says he tucked it into a tree to help Aurou hide the gin for a ‘discreet pickup.’ But then those fuckin’ hicks who think they can patrol the river showed up and they had to bolt.”

“The drunken ones with the shotguns and gator pelts?” Marco suggests. Jean chances flicking his eyes to Marco's face and his mood sours when he sees how  _tired_ Marco looks. Like he hasn't slept at all. His hair is messy and uncombed, sticking out from under a purple bandanna caked with sweat from the late summer heat and only making Marco's tired expression more pronounced.

Eren snaps his fingers, pointing at Marco before reaching back into the water. “Them's the ones. Startin' to think it's a local Clan group. Their boat's decked to the nines in flags. ”

“Gunther's the dullahan, right?” Jean rolls his eyes upward in an attempt to remember, and Marco nods. Eren only splashes again. Jean remembers briefly meeting a Gunther; he mostly remembers tan skin and hair gel with a line of stitches crossing muscled neck. “I thought he could stick his head back on sometimes.”

“He does, but the job requires a lot of bending down and dullahan heads like to roll.” Marco reaches for one of the paddles and pushes a log out of the boat’s way. Somewhere to the side a lump Marco _thought_ was a log opens its eyes and dives into the water, vanishing under the murky brown. “Eren, gators. Get your hands in the boat.”

“Ah, damn, I thought I could catch a few more.” Eren pouts.

Jean, who is once again looking at the water, pauses before shifting his head to face Eren's back. Eren's sleeves are damp from his splashing but his movements are slow, strained enough that Jean can see his back muscles flex where sweat has stuck cloth to his skin.

Jean squints in suspicion and slowly asks, “Catch _what_?”

“Dinner.” Eren turns around and dumps a bag into the center of the boat. It's soaking wet, dripping everywhere, and _wriggling_. Jean scoots back in apprehension.

The bag lets out a muffled croaking noise.

Marco blinks, a tired but bright smile worming its way out as he looks at Eren with nothing but fondness. Jean turns away from the display. “You've been catchin' frogs this whole time?”

“Yep. You always cook 'em good. You give 'em spice. If I let someone else do it, it'll end up bland.” Eren's voice is proud and just as affectionate as Marco's. Jean ignores the fire that begins to burn in his chest. Instead he takes a deep breath and looks back to the wriggling, croaking canvas bag and twists his lips up in disgust.

He's seen some strange food, but this is just gross.

“You're going to _eat_ those?”

Eren and Marco break off what Jean supposes is a love-struck gazing contest to raise their eyebrows at him. His heart jumps at the realization he's truly fucked up; they're looking him in the _eye_ and he can't look _away._

“’Course. S'what you do with big swamp frogs.” Eren cocks his head, looking Jean over with barely concealed suspicion. “Thought you was French. They eat this shit too.”

“We feed it to stupid tourists who _think_ it's what we eat!” Jean exclaims.

Eren rolls his eyes in a fashion too strenuous to _not_ be an exaggeration. “Oh, so Frenchy is too good for his own country's food? I knew you were uppity but this is ridiculous—”

“I am not _uppity_ —”

“Says the guy wearin' designer shoes in the _bayou,_ ” Eren shoots back, pointing at Jean's shoes. “Even the gators are laughin' at you.”

“Okay, you _know what_ , Dog Breath—” Jean starts, rising up and rolling his sleeves back before a movement in the corner of his eye halts him.

Marco is holding back laughter.

Jean halts his procession to punch Eren and lowers his fist. “What? What's so funny?”

Marco smiles. It's tired, it's a little sad, and his eyes don't seem to fully match, but he smiles. “You're arguin' again. Didn't think we'd get you to talk today.”

Jean feels his cheeks grow hot and he can't really blame the heat.

Instead he diverts his gaze to the bag of frogs and settles back into his seat. Marco laughs and Eren nudges the wriggling bag toward the other end of the boat and out of the way.

By all accounts, nothing has really happened, but for some reason, the tension in Jean's shoulders begins fading away.

“So…remind me what Gunther's head looks like again?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #17: Gunther loses his head almost weekly. It's turned up in locations ranging from kitchen cabinets to Annie's room. He never knows how it winds up in those places. 
> 
> AS ALWAYS comments and kudos make for an extremely happy author. As does gaining readers on the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I talk about fics and post extra material. Especially concerning October hint hint nudge nudge


	18. The Game: or: Spin The Bottle is a Universal Pastime for Bored Teenagers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Round and round and round it goes, where it will land, nobody knows. 
> 
> Except we already know. 
> 
> The cliche is why this game is popular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I actually have a chapter ready ON TIME, that hasn't happened in a while. Big thanks to my editor for her hard work since she does this for free in her spare time. 
> 
> The official Bootleggers: The Long Halloween playlist is about halfway done, just needs some tweaking and a few more songs. You can count on its release on the first of October as planned.

 

The tradition of Smith House Game Night was one that began when Erwin himself was thirteen years old. He, Mike, Hanji, and a not-quite-lawful-yet Nile hid themselves in the decaying barn on the property and played Truth or Dare until Nile injured himself trying to hug Mr. Smith's prized rooster.

And so from there, the tradition had grown.

Stories of these game nights ranged from Hanji reportedly pushing a naked Levi into the pond in the woods, Petra outrunning the angry bull in the fields outside the property, and Moblit dressing in the late Mrs. Smith's finest gown and posing on a street corner. The truth is never validated, but doing so would seem to violate the spirit of it all.

Eren has been witness to many of these game nights, as has Marco. Eren's been subjected to drinking contests, dares that involve him streaking across neighbors’ lawns, and orders to kiss just about everyone in the house on the lips. Marco… Marco is less adventurous, but one wild game night when he was seventeen  _did_ lead to crawling into the house for a night of debauchery with a very drunk werewolf.

But it's not like they remember that game anyway. That particular brand of tequila was banned after Reiner punched a support beam into splinters.

On this night, Connie clears away all the junk left over from his precious brewing rig (“There, there, Caroline. I'll put you back together tomorrow.”) and produces a single empty wine bottle.

There's a murmur of excitement as everyone automatically settles into a large circle. Eren and Marco take seats next to each other, and Jean is squished between Sasha and Christa halfway to the other side. Ymir leans over and fiddles with an aging radio propped on a crate behind Jean's head, allowing crackly music to fill the silence of the barn as Connie rummages for a bottle with actual alcohol in it.

“’Kay, so we all know the rules, right?” The mage pulls out a bottle of rum from a dusty crate, testing how full it is before nodding and settling in next to Bertholdt. “Gotta smooch for twelve seconds, and tongue fuckin' is proper grounds to slap someone so you can’t complain ‘bout it.”

“Um, what if it lands on, like…” Jean starts, nervously gazing around. “Um…another—”

“You ain't gonna catch the gay from spin the bottle,” Eren clarifies with an eyebrow wiggle. “Ain't like we're gonna go ‘round announcin' it to the press.”

“Oh.” Jean's cheeks flush at the thought. He does a quick headcount of how many boys and girls are present and his throat tightens with the realization he _may_ just have to put his lips on a man. The only ones present are the residential kids and Mina, who apparently is bunking with Annie for the night. There’s a brief moment where he hopes the bottle lands on Eren, the memory of their kiss at the bar flashing in his head, but he crushes it as quickly as it arrives. He can’t afford to do that again.

Even if Eren’s lips _are_ soft and pleasant.

“’Kay, we all here? We all good?” Connie asks. Everyone nods and Connie takes a swill of the rum for himself before passing it along. “All righty then. Let’s start.”

Connie spins and Jean tenses as the bottle whirls around on the dusty floor, sighing with relief when it lands on Mina. The two crawl forward for their kiss and the entire circle hears: “Tongue me and I knock your teeth out with a wrench, _tonto_ ,” before their lips connect.

The circle cheers and the two break it off the second Reiner is done counting. Connie is beaming. Mina looks slightly ill.

And so it goes on from there.

Sasha kisses Bertholdt and finishes with a large gulp of the rum, leaving Bertholdt to sweat nervously without anything to drink.

Eren kisses Reiner, adding in a wink and suggestive kissy noises that give everyone in the room far too much of a mental image.

Christa kisses Annie, whose face doesn’t move but a flush decorates her cheeks when they part.

Mikasa kisses Marco and compliments his cologne. He compliments her fruity lip cream right back.

Ymir lands on Eren but refuses to do it, leading to the wolf trying to crawl on her with her smacking him on the face while yelling she doesn’t want his “Nasty ass dog breath” as Eren yells back that Ymir needs to let him love her. He smooches her cheek a few minutes later when she leans to fiddle with the radio, and he gets shoved into the floor.

When it finally reaches Jean’s turn, Armin is finishing off a rather sweet kiss with Christa that leaves them laughing all the way back to their seats.

Jean tenses. The circle watches with interest as his shaky hand grips the bottle and _spins_.

_Please land on a girl. Please land on a girl. Please land on a girl._

The bottle spins ‘round and ‘round, Jean following the tip with bated breath. The bottle slows, wobbles, and settles to a stop. Jean grits his teeth and looks at who it picked. Eren wolf whistles (no pun intended) and Marco bites his lip on a laugh, looking down at the bottle in slight disbelief. The rest of the circle whoops and hollers. Ymir growls out a “GET IT ON!” before being silenced.

Whatever force rules this universe, Jean can feel it laughing at him and pointing.

Marco crawls toward the middle of the circle with ease. Jean gets up, knees cracking a bit from staying in the same position all night, and slowly joins him. His palms are sweating and the lantern glow lighting the barn suddenly feels like a spotlight.

Marco cups his face and Jean can feel himself going red. Marco leans down, whispers, “Don’t be so scared, silly,” and presses their lips together.

In the far off distance Reiner is counting and the circle is making noise. Jean’s eyes slip closed and Marco grins into the kiss, tilting his head to slot them both together a bit better.  A shiver rocks Jean’s spine and slowly his brain fills with cotton candy, thoughts flying in and out without much attention or care. All he can really focus on is the fact Marco’s lips are _very soft_ and _moving_ and he’s moving his right back.

But then Marco pulls away and Jean needs to take a moment to remember where he is and what he’s doing. The circle around them is still making noise, murmurs and chatter and encouragement, and Marco releases Jean’s face. The butterflies fluttering in his chest die quickly in a fiery inferno as Reiner pipes in with, “That was way more than twelve seconds—” and Marco crawls back to his seat without looking back.

Jean does the same, shaky and red and feeling shameful all over for the stirring in his gut. Marco smiles at him from across the circle and Eren gives a thumb up. There’s a look on Eren’s face Jean can’t exactly place, but it doesn’t look _negative_ …

“God, Marco, did you even let him _breathe_?” Mina jokes. Jean doesn’t know whether to be grateful or mortified that the circle is carrying on like something momentous didn’t just happen.

Marco runs his hand through his hair, eyes to the floor with a bashful smile. “’Course he can breathe. He ain’t purple.”

“Can we spin again? I ain’t stopping till I kiss everyone in here at least once,” Eren interrupts, reaching for the bottle.

“Cuz you ain’t got standards.” Connie snatches the bottle away from Eren’s hand with a smirk.

The wolf makes an offended noise. “I got standards!”

The entire circle, sans Jean and Eren, unanimously echo, “ _Trisha_.”

“That was a onetime mistake!” Eren protests. “I was drunk! She was a predator!”

“She was a bar floozy and you were an idiot—” Sasha cuts in, ready to apparently go on a tirade before the radio starts spitting out a jingle that makes everyone in the room groan in annoyance.

_“Turn on the light; you see the future is bright! Everyone knows that Reiss is right~!”_

Jean, slowly forcing the red out of his face, remembers it vaguely from the radio in his house. The tune got stuck in his mother’s head at least once a week.

“Someone shut that off!” Christa demands. Her pleasant demeanor is gone and she wrinkles her nose in disgust. “If I have to listen to another _Reiss is Right_ ad, I’m gonna—”

Ymir placates her by switching the station, the sounds of a banjo and sad men filling the air instead, and the group moves on to the next person to spin. The rum bottle gets passed around again and more cheering erupts when the next couple is selected.

In his seat, Jean touches his lips and feels his face turn red all over again. He chances a glance to Marco.

The Creole boy winks at him, and Jean makes a strangled noise in his throat before yanking the rum bottle over for a much needed drink.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#18: Eren is constantly on a mission to smooch everyone in the house. His wild pansexual ways must be stopped. 
> 
> As always, COMMENTS and KUDOS make for a very happy author who works that much faster. Especially long comments. I don't care if it's meta about how much you like a characters clothes I wanna hear it all. You can check out my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) for bonus material, information about future projects, and sneak peeks about what's coming.


	19. The Class: or: Anxiety Makes the Heart Grow From Nervous Palpitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every good man needs a beard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be published on Thursday but unfortunately schedules don't work out the way we want sometimes. But the official schedule for October is set! Updates every Thursday with the final week having a Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday update so that the final chapter drops on Halloween. 
> 
> This Thursday begins The Long Halloween arc, and joining it will be the official Long Halloween playlist! I've been writing like a machine this past month so I hope you all enjoy it. 
> 
> Now onto official business: BOOTLEGGERS EXTRA CORNER
> 
> [Safe Space](http://shingeki-no-unicorns.tumblr.com/post/129447496088/safe-space-a-bootleggers-extra) -an extra about smol Eren and Levi
> 
> TW: Trigger warning this chapter for period typical prejudice and use of slurs.

 

 

Jean realizes just how much he took the summer for granted when he returns to classes.

The world Marco and Eren live in, the world where everyone is an “other” and aware of it and doesn’t try to cover it up, is one he realizes he needs. He's never had that sort of freedom before. Eren and Marco can walk around and talk to people and everyone around them revels in the fact they're different. They're outside propriety. College isn't like that at all.

The school his father paid for, the one he was sent to without even being asked if he wanted to go, is one filled with people like him. Young men with money. Influence. Few women seem present and the ones that are, are stern in asserting they want nothing to do with nonsense, which Jean understands, seeing as how a majority of the students here seem comfortable with blowing their tuition on joking around. He knows the type. Young men like him who know their families can pay for everything. They don't seem to understand the concept of working hard.

The family driver drops Jean off at the front gate, and once again, he's thrust into the world where he needs to keep his head down.

He's been doing it for so long that after a summer of holding himself high, looking to the ground is a strain he doesn't want anymore. All the way to his 9:30 economics lecture, he's reminded over and over and over again just how different his world is from the one his friends are in. From the flyers being handed out with _Reiss is Right_ in print detailing the ways he'd restrict the rights of 'beasts' to the comments he hears walking into the door. 

The voices of classmates on every side make his heart beat faster and faster, and he all but collapses into a chair in the lecture hall.

“I heard Hitch spent her summer with a _merlin_ of all things.”

“I heard a rumor that a werewolf managed to make it on campus this year. Can't believe that sort've _trash_ would be let near us; I'm having my dad call the dean for this.”

“Saw some fairy down the street this morning. Nearly hit it with the car. What does it think it's doing, using the same sidewalk as good, _normal_ people?”

Every word makes Jean clench his pencil tighter as he opens his notebook. Comments like this used to slide right by him. Last semester he was a master at ignoring them. Barely anyone these days is aware _he_ is a merlin, and he intends to keep it that way. The less they know about him, the less he has to care what they do.

The comments bother him _so much_ now, though, because with each word, he has a face to match with the insult. He thinks of the kids back at the Smith estate. He thinks of Eren and Marco and Mikasa and Armin and how they're some of the best people he's ever met. He thinks of how angry Eren gets when he hears slurs. He thinks of how Marco ducks his head walking down the street so people pass him by.

It makes Jean sick, thinking about them having to duck their heads like this.

But he can’t afford to speak up, so he clutches his pencil tightly and marks down notes about the syllabus so no one will approach him to talk. And it works. Classmates walk right by without sparing him a second glance.

A body in an expensive dress slides into the seat next to him, and Jean knows who would dare disrupt him without even looking. Those bright and shining heeled shoes tell him everything he needs to know.

“Hitch.”

“Jean.”

Hitch Dreyse looks prim and proper sitting up in her chair, legs crossed, hands clasped with delicate manicured nails showing. Her smug smile radiates off her form and she offers Jean little more than a cursory glance before taking a notebook out of her bag.

Jean pauses mid-note to stare at it, furrowing his brow. “You’re in the Dentistry school. Why are you in economics?”

“You aren’t the only one in classes you hate,” Hitch replies. “The dentist course is a bore.”

“I never said I hated my classes,” Jean replies evenly.

“You don’t have to.” Hitch drums her nails on the notebook, puffing her lips in mockery as the class settles down around them. The professor begins writing the notes for the day on the board, and Hitch relaxes, leaning into her seat and keeping her face forward. “I heard something interesting today.” 

“I don’t care, Hitch.”

“You’ll want to care. It concerns you.”

Jean grips his pencil just a bit tighter. “I _don’t_ care. I don’t _plan_ to care. I just want to take this class in peace. ”

Hitch hums. “Oh really? So you won’t care if the entirety of upper New Orleans thinks you’re queer?”

Jean freezes.  The color slowly drains from his face and Hitch smiles to herself. She knows she has his attention now.

“Flegel Reeves swears up and down that he saw you macking on a man in a bar. I told him that was ridiculous but my, _my_ , I needed to see if it really was true.”

“ _Hitch_ ,” Jean starts.

“There’s also a rumor that you’ve been spending all your time with a negro and a werewolf. I don’t know about you, but I know how bad that looks to someone of our status,” Hitch continues on, not heeding Jean’s warning. She keeps her gaze focused on the professor and Jean does the same, even with fear gripping his chest.

He knows Hitch. She’s saying this for a reason. She’s either about to ruin his life or blackmail him—

“So we’re in a similar boat right now.”

Jean turns his head just a bit. “ _What_?”

“I don’t particularly care what you do in your spare time. If you feel like being a sodomite with colored men, go right ahead. But over the summer, I met someone and Daddy wouldn’t be very pleased if he knew.” Hitch flips open her notebook and Jean is a little peeved to see notes already written down. He knows enough about Hitch to know she’s already gotten everything she needs for this class. “He’s a merlin. A poor one at that.”

Jean frowns. “I hate to break it to you—”

“I know. You’re a merlin, too. But you’re a merlin with status and really, the status is all Daddy cares about.” Hitch uncrosses her legs then crosses them again the opposite way, fingers drumming against the notebook at a steady pace. “We can help each other out a bit.”

Jean hunches his shoulders. “…what are you thinking?”

“Simple. We need beards.” Hitch flips a bit of her hair out of the way, nonchalantly pretending to write down the notes already written in her notebook as the professor drones on. Jean taps his pen against his paper in frustration. He doesn’t understand a word the man is saying. “I need a boy with my status to keep Daddy happy, and you need a lady so you aren’t lynched with a hot poker up your ass by the clan anytime soon.”

Jean blanches at the mental image. “You could stand to be less graphic.”

“I need to make sure you understand just how much danger you’re in,” Hitch replies coolly. “Me dating a merlin could get me in trouble, but it’s _nothing_ compared to what happens to homos around here.” She smiles then, a glint in her eye passing by with her thoughts. “And maybe if we help each other long enough, Kirschstein Co. could be my ticket into the business world.”

Jean frowns. Around him, no one seems to be able to hear their conversation, which is a good sign, but he eyes Hitch warily.

“So you’re using me.”

“You’d be using _me_ ,too. The Dreyse name could do oodles for you if you know what to do.” Hitch smiles. “This is incentive, sweetie. We go on a few fake dates, see each other at parties, and then at the end of the day, I get my boy and you can go blow as many men as you want.”

“ _Hitch_ —”

“Do we have a deal?” Hitch interrupts. Jean stares at her. He stares at her perfectly lined eyes and carefully styled hair. He stares at the uncharacteristically serious expression she’s wearing, and for a moment, he thinks of Eren and Marco back at the Smith estate.

He thinks of how if he’s caught, they’re next.

“…fine. Deal.”

“Good.” Hitch smiles and takes her notebook and places it on Jean’s desk, digging out a blank one for herself and taking notes in earnest. “You can have that. It’s my brother’s. I piggyback as much as anyone, but I only piggyback off people who aren’t related to me.”

Jean stares down at the completed notes, slowly setting his pencil down with the realization he was being _helped_.

“…why are you doing this?”

Hitch replies without a pause. “Because it’s convenient. Now shut up and be a good boyfriend and pretend to help me with notes.”

Jean sighs. He takes a long look at the class, at the boys saying all the slurs and rumors before class started, and he thinks of every terrible thing he’s heard from them since last year. Then he does as Hitch asks and scoots closer, notebook in hand.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #19: Jean's school is one of the few in the city that doesn't accept colored students. Women are allowed in but primarily enter the dentistry course, which Hitch detests and fills her schedule with extra classes for business majors. 
> 
> As always COMMENT and kudos, but please COMMENT because it lets me know you actually enjoy this stuff and feedback helps me make better chapters. 
> 
> And don't forget to stop by my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I babble and post extra content.


	20. The Outreach: or: Beginnings Often Come in Forms Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~Oh graveyard boy, whisper through the tombstones with me~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begins. 
> 
> I'd like to thank my editor, who threatened to kick my ass when she saw the size of the email containing October's chapters, and all the readers who encouraged me. Doing this project was exhausting but rewarding. 
> 
> And now to accompany the beginning of The Long Halloween arc, the official [LONG HALLOWEEN PLAYLIST](http://8tracks.com/shingekicorn/bootleggers-the-long-halloween#smart_id=dj:16460790)
> 
> TW: trigger warning for casual period racism

 

 

 

Parking outside the tea house, in retrospect, was probably a bad idea considering just who took up the front seats.

There aren't many restaurants on this side of the city that serve colored people. Eren knows from experience. The streets are clean and paved smooth and the people dress as nicely as Erwin. Every few feet or so a large sign proclaims just  _who_  is allowed in. The upper side of the city isn't meant for people like Eren.

He distinctly remembers Levi getting into an argument over the subject when he couldn't take their little family to eat anywhere that wasn't filled with “health violations,” but the law is the law. Eren might have had a white father, but as long as his skin is as it is, the signs apply to him, too.

“You sure she said she wanted to meet here?” Marco eyes the building suspiciously, leaning toward the windshield to crane his head at the decorated windows towering above the street. Passersby glare at their car as they stroll on the sidewalk and women clutch their purses or children closer when they notice Marco leaning so close to the glass, but the boys tune them out.

Jean notices in the backseat and hopes a cop doesn't walk over. He's seen men pulled over for less.  _They’ve_  been pulled over for less, over a stupid flamingo.

“Yep. Reservation under the name ‘Frieda.’” Eren looks over the paper in his hands once more, inhaling the floral perfume and squinting at the dainty handwriting before tucking it into his pocket. He wore a button up for this meeting, so he hopes they won't be turned away at the door. “Private room for private talk.”

“Must'a paid a fortune for them to let us in,” Marco mutters.

“ _If_  they let us in,” Jean joins in. “Skin aside, I know this place. It serves high class clientele. You two stick out like sore thumbs.”

Eren grinds his teeth and shoots Jean an annoyed look. “She said she took care of it, so we'll just wait and see. Now let's get out before the cop over there thinks we're here to rob the goddamn bank.” Eren leaves the car, holding the door open for Marco to scoot over and exit directly onto the sidewalk. Marco rolls his eyes but allows it, smiling a little sweetly when Eren bows his head. He's getting better at recognizing Eren's courting.

Jean follows Marco out and nervously takes in the street around them.

Marco and Eren pay him no mind and continue towards the front door. Jean follows in and takes a deep breath in anticipation; the host up front immediately wrinkles his face at the sight of their little party and Jean feels the lump in his stomach grow. He's seen this before. They're about to be kicked out or threatened or—

“We're here for a private room, under ‘Frieda.’” Eren clears his voice of his drawl to speak, focusing on the host’s forehead instead of his eyes. Marco looks off to the corner of the room. Several tables on the main floor, filled with cakes and pastries and gossiping socialite girls, pause what they're doing to stare at them in wonder.

Hearing the name, the host sighs but beckons them to follow. He doesn't look happy as he leads them through a small hallway to a set of stairs; Eren sneers at the host’s back before speaking again to Marco and Jean.

“All right, now this is an outreach. It's tradition for the sought party to bring part of their pack, but you two don't gotta talk.” He taps the pocket where he stored the letter, eyes softening a bit. “She'll be alone, so let me handle it.”

“In here, sirs.” The host opens a white door, ushering them in (without laying a hand on them and awkwardly holding his gloved fingers just above their shoulders) before bowing. “The serving staff will be right with you.”

All three of them pretend not to hear him mutter harsh words as he leaves.

The room itself is a soft yellow, white curtains filtering sunlight onto fresh sunflowers arranged in the middle of an elegant, large, square table. The smell of the flowers mixes with the colors to almost make the boys forget they're in the middle of the city. On one end of the table sits a figure in a cotton dress, a large sun hat blocking her face from view.

She turns her head and Marco and Jean use every ounce of self control not to cringe.

Scars cover her face. Three long, jagged lines run horizontally across, bridging her nose and eyes. A scrape on her lip forms a fine pink line. A curve follows her jaw. Marring her neck are more scrapes and a bite very similar to Eren's, but…more ferocious. More disfigured.

Like her neck had been torn completely open.

“You see now why I arranged a private room,” she laughs with no real humor, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. It’s long and dark and parted to frame her face, glowing with the health the boys recognize from expensive beauty products. “You would think after ten years I would be used to the staring.”

Eren is the only one not to react. Instead he approaches in a stride, holding his head high while maintaining eye contact with the girl. The two stare at each other for a mere moment before Eren bows his head and receives a bow and a baring of the neck in return.

“Eren,” he says.

“Frieda. Please sit. I welcome your pack to witness my outreach.” She gestures with one dainty hand toward the other chairs, which Marco and Jean slide into silently. Eren takes the seat directly across from Frieda and twines his fingers together in front of his chin. Jean and Marco exchange glances. Between the two of them, they've never actually seen werewolf business before. For Marco, the most he's seen is Mike occasionally dispensing some quip about the local community outside the city.

For Jean, everything he knows is from movies and books written by humans. So he knows virtually nothing. He doesn't even understand why Eren insists Jean’s part of his “pack,” and frankly, Jean’s nervous about asking at this point.

Eren and Frieda stare at each other again, Frieda slowly blinking before nodding her head.

“I suppose I should start with my turning.”

“You don't  _have_  to,” Eren replies softly.

“For my request, I think I do.” Frieda smiles. She smiles a soft, sad smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. “I was bitten roughly a decade ago. A pack invaded my home and attacked my family during dinner.”

Eren stiffens. Beside him, Marco begins to look worried and Jean clenches his hands in his lap.

Frieda looks down at her hands, rubbing her thumb softly along the ridge of her hand. The faint etch of bite marks stand out on her skin. “I don't… I don't quite remember  _everything_ , but I know my siblings were turned along with me. But their ages were so varied, and their injuries were a bit much. I was the…” She pauses as the door opens and a server enters with a silver cart. The server averts their eyes as they quickly set out a teapot and cups, pastries, milk, and sugar; Frieda politely thanks them before pouring herself tea. The server gives Marco and Eren a wide berth and keeps their head bowed as they leave just as quickly as they came.

Frieda takes a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of her tea before continuing. “I was the only one to turn successfully. My father was at the office at the time so he was spared it all. A family maid who had been in the cellar took care of me when the pack left.”

Jean pours himself a cup, if anything just to give himself something to do, and then one for Eren, who accepts it wordlessly. Marco reaches for nothing and merely watches.

“If it's been so long, why don't you have a pack of your own?” Eren asks. Frieda's expression crumbles a bit. She takes a sip of her tea, schooling her expression before replying.

“Father was not… _fond_  of my new status. I was sent to live with my aging uncle. I lived with him and served as his caretaker.” Frieda bites her lip. “But last month he died, and I can't claim what he left me in his will for legal reasons. Soon the house will be claimed. I need to relocate.”

Eren nods. “So you're disowned?”

“I'm actually forbidden from residing within city limits,” Frieda confirms with a soft frown. “It's dangerous for me to even be here. But…I have something I want to do, and that requires I settle down somewhere close.”

“So you want to settle into the community.” Eren leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. He thinks about the information he's been given and taps his arm with his forefinger. “You know you could have just come in. We accept strays all the time.”

“I'm afraid I wouldn't be very well received if I did that.” Frieda pours herself more tea and drops two cubes of sugar in, offering a small but sad turn of the lips. “For the same reason I can't do much of anything regarding the will.”

“Which is?” Eren presses. “If you wanna join the community like this, we need to know.”

Frieda's eyes flick down to the tablecloth. Her fingers twirl around her stirring spoon, tea reflecting her expression back at her.

“I didn't sign my full name for a reason.” She bites her lip before setting the spoon down and placing her hands on her lap. “My name is Frieda Reiss.”

With that, a metaphorical brick drops.

Marco freezes, staring at Frieda with disbelief. Jean chokes on his tea. Eren frowns, fingers clenching into his arms, and his lip curls just a bit before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Reiss. Like—”

“Rod Reiss, running for mayor and pushing for a registration bill that would take away the citizens’ rights of many creatures like us.” Frieda nods. Her facade breaks a bit, her voice tired and strained as she looks up from her tea to look at Eren directly. “ _Legally_  I'm dead. He can't afford to have a werewolf daughter when all his policies are for the restraining of ‘beasts.’”

“Unbelievable.” Eren shakes his head.

“I would have left for another state at this point, with how much damage he wants to do, but…” Frieda worries at her lip, teeth pulling at the thin scar. “But I want to find someone first. I have a half-sister. She didn't live with us, so she wasn't there for…for the  _incident_.”

“You  _could_ just ruin his career,” Eren points out. “Make him pay for throwin' you out.”

“I could. But I don't want to be the center of attention. I just want to find my sister and regain some of the family I lost.” Frieda shakes her head. “I haven't… It hasn't been easy, since my turning, and all I want is some peace.”

Eren sighs. Marco watches him think before looking back to Frieda, only to find her attention not on Eren.

She stares at Marco not with the careful observation she does with Eren, or with the tenseness of waiting for an attack, but with something Marco takes a minute to place.

Like she's seen him before.

Eren taps the table, flicking a pastry crumb away before speaking.

“So you, the daughter of the man all wolves _hate the most_ , wants to join the local community. What would you have to offer us? We ain't takin' you as a freeloader.”

Frieda breaks from staring at Marco and nods. “I'm good with children. I'm well read and was on the track to going to university before my turning. I have some medical experience from handling my uncle's medication and health regiment.”

“We take watchin' the pups real seriously.” Eren's expression darkens.

“Of course. I wouldn't dream of doing anything.”

Eren nods. “Can you clean? Cook? Can you run a house without someone helpin' ya out?”

“I've been looking after my uncle's home since he was confined to bed last year.” Frieda nods rapidly, leaning forward toward the table a bit in her eagerness.

“…all right then. Mike, a local alpha… He's got me a cabin ready that I haven't moved into. Some rich-ass, turned-wolf built it before runnin' off to do what the fuck ever since he never fit into the community.” Eren rubs his nose, chewing his lip a bit before pointing at Frieda. “I can talk to him about lettin' you in, and if he says yes, you can stay there. Watch the place. But  _only_  until you get your own damn cabin. Or if you join a pack.”

“I understand.” Frieda's lips perk up.

“I ain't promisin' nothin'. You gotta number I can call?”

“I have the number for the motel I'm currently using.” Frieda reaches for her purse, hanging over the back of her chair and out of sight, pulling out a small card and sliding it toward the other wolf. Eren takes it and tucks it into his pocket with a nod. “Thank you. For hearing my case.”

“It's what an outreach is for.” Eren shrugs. He considers getting up to leave, but pauses and places his hand on the table. “Why me, though? I'm not an alpha. I don't  _live_ in the community.”

“Oh.” Frieda raises her hand to her lips, the other scrabbling back for her purse and pulling out a faded yellow envelope. “I almost forgot, actually. You're… You're Dr. Jaeger's son, aren't you?”

Marco and Jean shrink in their seats. Eren's muscles tighten but his face betrays nothing.

“It's just… I found this. While clearing my uncle’s belongings out.” Frieda sets the letter down on the table. “I saw it was never sent and I remember Dr. Jaeger from when I was younger, so…I thought I would deliver it. I never opened it, though. When I found out you were a wolf, I just sort of—”

“I get it.” Eren holds his hand up to silence her. Gingerly, he takes the envelope and reads the orderly cursive printed on the front. The paper is yellowed with age, crinkled and bent in some places. A stamp from 1910 is stuck to the corner.

It's addressed to him all right. His father's script is etched into the paper and his name is on the return address from some location Eren doesn't even know.

Somewhere in fucking Mississippi, apparently.

Marco can see the coil in Eren wind up tighter. He prays Eren waits until they're home before he explodes.

Eren tucks the envelope away in the same pocket as the card and Frieda's letter. He breathes deeply once, twice, three times. Then he offers a polite nod to Frieda.

“I'll plead your case to Mike. Thanks for treating us and welcoming my pack.” Eren stands, Marco and Jean scrambling to rise with him as he makes his way for the door. Marco sends a look to Jean and Jean nods, darting after Eren before Eren has a chance to start the car. If Eren drives them home, he'll end up killing someone. Frieda sips the last of her tea before grabbing her things. She slips on her sun hat and offers one final look to the window before following.

She stops Marco as he holds the door open for her.

“I never thought I would meet someone else like me.”

Her statement doesn't make any sense. Marco hunches a shoulder and raises an eyebrow in confusion. “I'm not a wolf, ma'am.”

Frieda shakes her head. “No, not like that. I mean…you don’t know yet?”

“No? Should I?” Marco leans against the door, keeping an ear out in case Jean comes back to bring him to the car.

“I thought for sure you could see it, too, but maybe you don’t…” Frieda touches her chin in thought, humming to herself. “Silly me. It’s just been an awful long time…”

“Well, what did you think I was?” Marco asks.

Frieda looks at him as if he asked a stupidly simple question. The sunny yellow room turns grey very quickly, clouds obscuring the sun when she opens her mouth to answer.

“Why, someone else who’s  _dead_ , of course.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#20: Frieda's uncle Uri had many secrets. She unfortunately did not learn them all before coming down to the city. 
> 
> COMMENTS are wonderful and appreciated, as are visits to my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn)
> 
> Don't forget about the [LONG HALLOWEEN PLAYLIST](http://8tracks.com/shingekicorn/bootleggers-the-long-halloween#smart_id=dj:16460790) since it can give you hints to the rest of the arc!


	21. The Letter: or: Fathers Be Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you say to the one who left you behind? Do you ask why, or do you turn yourself away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another update. This was originally gonna be week 3's update but I realized narration-wise it didn't fit very well. So it got bumped! Woo, another Eren chapter! 
> 
> TW: violence against a minor, daddy issues, period racism and use of slurs.

 

The underside of a porch is a surprisingly filthy place.

It's grungy, moldy, and coated in spiders and substances that range from slippery to spongy. There's a leaky water pipe running from what's sure to be the bathroom and everything within three feet of it smells like toe fungus. Eren only tucks himself deeper into the dirt, pressing his ears tightly against his skull as his leg throbs and the voices outside get louder. He doesn't know the man outside. He knows the people who live in this neighborhood, he watches them out the window all the time, and the short man in black  _isn't_  one of them.

He needs the man to leave.

He has buckshot in his leg from Mr. Moses's elderly mother, and he doesn't want to add another injury on top of it.

Because that's what adults _do._  Ever since the accident, that is all they ever do. They take one look at Eren and reach for something; they reach for a gun or a broom or a bat and they run at him like he's trying to rip their throat out. They run at him screaming curses and threatening to put his skin on their wall. They run at him with spittle flying from their mouths as they aim their barrels.

This one likely won't be any different. He may even be worse.

Maybe the couple down the street finally called the dog catcher like they always said they would. They were all smiles when he first met them, but the second they saw his scraggly fur limping down the street, the lady knocked a broom into his stomach so hard he threw up.

Eren's leg throbs and he whines. It's pitiful and soft; he's so hungry his head is dizzy and all his strength is going toward pressing his body into the ground in case the man comes looking for him. He needs to eat. He can't shift; he's tried so hard to do it, but with everything happening, he just  _can't_. He  _needs_  to. He needs to make himself look like a person again, so if this man has a gun, he  _may_ think twice about shooting.

Eren whines again and a tear forms in his eye when his leg throbs a bit harder than normal.

He hears Mikasa outside. Her voice is low and threatening, her little legs blocking the entrance to Eren's hiding spot as she tells the man to go away.

The man only steps forward a little. Toward the porch. Eren backs up and chokes down a cry at the fire spreading from his injury.

“I'm looking for a Mikasa Ackerman. Are you her?”

“None of your business.”

The voices outside are louder. Eren cowers and prays the man will just leave. He needs Armin; he needs Armin and his grandpa because they're better with the first aid kit and can probably pick all the metal out without hurting him even more.

“My name is Levi. Levi Ackerman.”

“I don't recall seein' you at any Christmases.”

“I'm aware.” The voice sounds angry. Annoyed. That always leads to an attack. Eren  _knows_  it always leads to an attack and  _Mikasa needs to run_ — “I'm just here to talk.”

“Bullshit.”

Mikasa stands her ground. Eren whines again and panics when the man's feet take another step closer.

“What's under the porch?”

“None of your business.”

“I see blood.”

“It's  _none_  of your  _business_.”

The man steps forward again and Eren can see Mikasa's feet jump; she pushes as hard as she can to keep him away. The man pauses.

Eren holds his breath.

The man speaks again. Softer.

“Listen, we can argue all day. But whatever is under there is hurt, right? The longer we do this, the longer it's in pain.”

Mikasa stops struggling. Eren wishes she wouldn't. She needs to keep him away. Adults always turn on him the second they take a good look. They  _always_  do and he's _literally too weak to move_ —

“Just let me take a look.”

Eren whimpers.

Mikasa moves out of the way. The man lowers himself and Eren whimpers again when his knee slides onto the grass.

When flat eyes meet his, Eren shakes and awaits the first hit. The man stares, taking in width and wetness of Eren’s eyes, before roving over the rest of him. His thin legs. His messy fur. They come to a stop on his hind leg, where his elderly neighbor finally managed to hit him with her shotgun.

The man closes his eyes and breathes. He opens them again and sits up, turning so he's facing Mikasa.

“Go get a towel and the man in charge of the house.”

Mikasa doesn't move, and the man repeats himself. Eren doesn't know what he's doing but for some reason Mikasa listens. The man lowers himself to look at Eren again and Eren's claws dig into the dirt out of nervousness.

He's surprised when the man actually enters the dirty crawlspace and extends his hand.

Eren shakes. He stares at the hand offered, eyes flicking between it and the flat expression on the man's face.

“You're Eren Jaeger, aren't you?” The man asks. Eren freezes. “The report listed you as a 'victim' from the home invasion. Thought that meant you were dead.”

Eren tries to scoot away and yelps from the pain. The man only extends his hand further. Eren can smell him. He smells like soap and linens and leather and…kind of like Mikasa. It's almost comforting.

“You need to come out. Your wound is going to get infected. Might  _already_  be infected.” The man beckons Eren forward. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

That's what they all say. That's  _always_  what they say before they get a good look at him.

“I'm  _not_ going to hurt you,” he says again. “Kid, you need to come the fuck out.” Eren still doesn't move. The shaking starts up again and Eren's stomach twists in pain; he needs to find something to eat so he can change back. He was trying to get to the leftovers in those trash bins when that crazy old broad grabbed her gun— “Okay, do you want proof I'm not going to hurt you?”

Eren's ears twitch at that.

The man withdraws his hand and pulls back his lips. He bares his teeth, and even in the dim light under the porch, Eren can see clearly.

Fangs. Little and filed down, but they're there. The man is like Mikasa. Like him. He’s a monster.

Eren shakes but scoots forward a little. The man relaxes and holds out his hand again. Moving is painful and awful and Eren's eyes start pouring tears, but once he's close enough the man gently urges him forward and out onto the scratchy grass of the Arlert's lawn.

“Christ, you're thin—” Eren whimpers when a towel is wrapped around him and Mikasa's soft voice cries his name. The man—no,  _Levi_ —holds him close and stands up.

He passes out before they even make it inside the house.

 

 

Eren remembers the day Levi found him. It had been three years to the  _day_  of the accident. March 31st, the day after his birthday.

That day Levi took him and Mikasa away from the Arlerts and moved them into the Smith estate. He took them away from white neighbors who hated them and food budgets that left them hungry. He took them away from older kids who called them “chink” and “redskin” and “bloodsucker” and “mutt.”

Of course, Eren hadn't made the move easy. As much as Armin's house was surrounded by bad things, the house itself felt like the closest thing to home. Grandpa Arlert treated them well. Armin did everything he could to help Eren with his condition.

But in the end, Levi taking them was for the best. He admits that much now.

Looking at the letter on the table, he admits it more readily and with more vigor than he thought possible.

“Are you going to open it?” Marco asks. He looks a bit green, twiddling his thumbs across from Eren and staring at a napkin. Neither of their moods are very good and it’s only making the scene all the more tense. The dining table gleams under the sunshine from the window and makes the golden color of the room more radiant, but with the expression Eren's pulling, everything may as well be gray.

Eren can tell something is bugging Marco and a primal part of his brain screams to go— _go soothe him; he is your promised; it is your duty to make sure he is well_ —but the anger from this little slip of paper only makes him see red.

“Mississippi. Fucking  _Mississippi_ ,” Eren growls. “I nearly fucking die and that son of a bitch was probably livin' it up in Jackson.”

“You don't know that. You haven't opened the letter,” Marco points out. Eren slams a hand on the table and snarls, startling Marco from his thumb twiddling and making Jean scramble from his awkward spot in the doorway.

“Don't  _defend_  him!”

“I'm  _not_ ,” Marco breathes, tensing his hands before meeting Eren's enraged eyes. “I'm saying don't jump to conclusions. You haven't read the letter yet. If you assume things, then you only make it worse for yourself.”

“Worse?  _Worse_!?” Eren stands and a low growl starts in his chest, which Marco meets head on with a stern look. Jean hides himself behind the doorway and wonders just how often Marco's dealt with Eren's rage. “It’s  _already_ worse! This means he was  _alive_! He was alive and he never came home!”

“Eren—” Marco starts.

“He was alive and he _left_ me there! Mikasa and I buried Mom— We buried her by  _ourselves_! That no-good, son of a  _bitch_  ran off and left us alone, and he didn't even  _care_  to look for us!” Eren's hands are shifting, Jean can hear the cracks from his knuckles and he cringes as Eren's claws sink into the wood of the table.

Eren begins to shake, and Marco's stern expression wears down a bit when tears start to form in Eren's eyes.

“This whole time… This whole time I actually hoped he'd died, too, because I didn't want those fuckin' cops to be right. He's  _white_. He might be foreign, but he's  _white_  and without a fuckin' redskin for a son, he can  _do_  somethin' with himself.”

Jean speaks up and steps away from the doorway. “You don't know that for sure.”

Eren glares but Jean comes forward and stands behind Marco. He raises his hands to rest on the back of the chair, gripping tightly as Marco leans back towards Jean's presence.

“The letter's addressed to  _you_. He was trying to contact you.”

“And tell me what? ‘Sorry, you're an orphan now. I'm never comin' back’?”  Eren barks a bitter laugh and releases his claws from the table, allowing them to shrink back down into normal fingers. “You know Levi adopted me? Me and Mikasa. Even offered me to take his last name.” He looks down at the letter and glares. “I didn't do it because I'm a stupid fuck who wanted to ‘honor his memory’ or some shit.”

Marco reaches forward but Eren steps back. Away from his touch. Away from the comfort a mate could provide. “Eren, it's okay—”

“No, it's  _not_!”Eren explodes.

Marco and Jean don't know how to respond, and Eren seems to know it too because the longer he looks at them, the more upset his face becomes. He doesn't allow silence to engulf the room; he grabs the letter from the table and crumples it, throwing it rather harshly at the wall.

“I've already got a dad. He's short as shit and a bag of dicks but he takes care of me. I don't need this! I don't need _him_!”Eren's voice breaks on the last word. He growls before stalking past Jean and Marco, past the doorway, and the two hear a loud  _bang_  from a door slamming before Eren's growls become muffled and vanish.

Marco releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Jean detaches his hands from the back of Marco's chair only to find angry red imprints of the wood in his palms.

“I haven't seen him like this since we were fourteen.” Marco shakes his head.

“It happens more often than you think.”

Jean and Marco both jump, Jean's hands returning to their iron grip on the chair as Levi seemingly materializes from the other dining room entrance, clad in his ever present Victorian gothic ensemble. Some part of Jean is steadily becoming convinced Levi actually  _can_  phase through walls. How he stays silent on the wood and tile of the house is a mystery for the ages.

Levi regards them for a moment before silently walking toward the crumpled paper on the floor. He picks it up, smoothing out the envelope and narrowing his eyes at the script neatly printed on the front. A soft  _tch_  escapes before he tucks the letter into his pocket.

Jean looks to the floor. “He didn't seem like he wanted it.”

“Maybe not now. Maybe not ever.” Levi shrugs, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his hands from any dust that may have clung to the faded paper. “Or maybe one day he'll wish he'd taken a look. I don't give a shit what he chooses to do. But if he wants it, it'll be in my desk.”

“You aren't going to read it yourself?” Marco asks.

“Not my letter,” Levi dully replies. His eyes slide toward the window before looking back to the boys. “Shouldn't you be calming him down?”

Marco raises his head in confusion. “No? You usually—”

“Because he goes to my room.” Levi points to the window and Jean turns to follow its direction, spotting Marco's studio and a shape pacing back and forth in front of the window. “He went somewhere else.”

Marco gapes, blinking at Levi who only looks nonplussed at the situation.

“He likes having his hair stroked. You can start with that.” Levi turns to leave, pausing to look at them over his shoulder. “Just don't let him start hitting things. He broke his knuckles last time he was allowed to cut loose.”

Marco and Jean blanch. Levi takes his leave, ascending the stairs to shut himself in his office.

Once Levi's out of sight, he grips the banister so tightly the wood splinters; for the first time in many years, he allows a snarl past his lips as red clouds his vision.

An old promise from years ago rears its head—a thought that had embedded itself in Levi's mind when he pulled an injured and starving pup from under a dirty porch and found out just how bad the situation was—but he crushes it. As angry as Eren is, he probably won’t appreciate Levi putting a sword through Grisha Jaeger's chest.

Even if the bastard deserves it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#21: Levi was only there to pick up Mikasa. Taking Eren along was a personal choice. 
> 
> COMMENTS make for a happy author and a productive author! (really, comments make my day even if it's nothing but incoherent screaming) As do visits to my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn)
> 
> Don't forget that Bootleggers has an official [PLAYLIST](http://8tracks.com/shingekicorn/bootleggers-the-long-halloween#smart_id=dj:16460790) either!


	22. The Grave: or: Marco's Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voodoo dictates that the soul stays by the body after death to protect it. Protect it from what, exactly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have literally been waiting to publish this chapter for two months. It was the very first thing set in stone once the October arc was decided on. Hell, early drafts of this chapter were jotted down when Bootleggers was still in its beginning days. I've waited so very long to bring this to you all and I hope you appreciate this lovely labor of love. 
> 
> BOOTLEGGERS FANART CORNER: 
> 
> pencil-only made some absolutely stunning work that happens to tie right in to this weeks chapter! Find a Marco portrait [HERE](http://pencil-only.tumblr.com/post/130981793788/cause-october-arc-of-bootleggers-will-destroy) and an amazing tie-in comic [HERE](http://pencil-only.tumblr.com/post/131107690558/i-have-no-shame-of-course-hasnt-happened-idk)
> 
> TW this chapter for graphic injury/death, and talk of death

Dying isn't enjoyable.

Then again, no one ever says it  _is_. Dying is unpleasant. It hurts. It’s scary. It shakes you down to your core as the light that is  _you_  begins to fade from the world.

All Marco remembers about dying is the screech of tires on the road and his brothers screaming as his body hit the ground with a sickening  _crack_. He remembers the blaring horn and the impact of metal to skin. He remembers tumbling over with his arms splayed, legs bent, and the breath leaving his lungs in a shudder as blood pooled around his skull.

He was only fifteen.

 

Marco Bodt died in October, 1915. He was crossing the street to join his siblings as they ran to the store for candy, as it was approaching the most sacred of sweet giving holidays, and forgot to check for cars. A driver hit him full on and broke his arm, his ribs, and cracked his skull both against the decals of his Ford and the uneven pavement that made up Marco's street. The skin from his face was torn by the metal and half his teeth were knocked clean from his skull.

Thankfully the damage to his brain meant he didn't feel much pain. He just had a horrible ringing in his ears as his body slowly went numb from shock.

All in all, it took two minutes or so for him to bleed out and his brain to stop functioning. In that time, Marco watched his crying mother drag his brothers and sister away. He watched the driver apologize profusely and vomit over what he'd done. He watched his father break at the sight of his oldest son splayed like a rag doll where his daughter played hopscotch.

He watched Gramma approach his body and place a hand over her heart before shutting his eyes out of respect.

He wasn't really sure what was worse: his mother's heaving sobs or the neighbors lining the street to watch as his blood stained the ground.

Help took half an hour to arrive. Typical for his neighborhood on the river. Marco was taken to a hospital so out of the way, that even if it had come sooner, it would have been too late. But that's how things were.

Marco doesn't know how he knows that, or how he remembers things like the ride over with medics who never stopped commenting on his dirty skin color, but he does. He remembers his body being handled, stripped, and cleaned, and he remembers his face somewhat being put back together… He remembers it all.

Eventually his parents came by, his mother sobbed again and threw her arms around her dead son, and they left to make arrangements. His mother wasn’t part of the craft and refused his grandmothers urging for a voodoo funeral. Marco heard their fighting and felt his heart break at the mournful anger.

According to Gramma, the soul stays by the body for seven days to protect it before going to the Afterworld. He wondered if that’s why he was being subjected to this torture.

It was like he was a ghost, really. Still looking at the world through closed eyes.

 

The mortician who took him was nicer than the paramedics. That was a plus.

But as nice as the old mortician was, even with his strange hobby of chatting like Marco could answer back (and Marco wanted to; oh, God, he wanted to so badly), the funeral was… Well, it felt just as awful as dying.

His mother was, of course, the first one to come to his casket. She cried, caressed his face, hiccupped when she found the bumps where the mortician had sewn his cheek back together, and buried her face in her husband’s chest to cry. Marco's father shook but did his best to look strong. He had an example to set.

His siblings were next. Maurice looked pale. Thin. A fuzzy black head tried to peek in but wasn't tall enough and Marco found himself grateful. Kyle needed to remember Marco as he used to be. Not like this. Maurice carried Mabel in his arms. She refused to look at his face as tears rolled down her cheeks, and Maurice only whispered, “I'm sorry,” before ushering the convoy of Bodtlings back to the pews.

Gramma patted his hands and placed hers over her heart again. Resignation was written all over her. She offered a quiet, “Take care. I love you,” before moving on.

His family, his large and loud family, all came by. One by one. A few uncles Marco never talked to mentioned it was a shame. His nosy aunts still gossiped, this time about how hard his mother was taking it. His cousins tried to leave out of discomfort as soon as they saw him.

Then came Eren.

Marco had seen Eren sad before. Eren was moody, intense. When Eren felt sad, he felt  _devastated_. But the look in his eyes was something Marco didn't recognize. Everything about his form seemed twisted. Questioning. Simmering in some mixture of emotion that couldn't decide how to express itself. Eren opened his mouth to say something, but shook his head and bit his lip. Mikasa came up from behind, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Eren glanced back in appreciation before slipping something cold and metallic into Marco's hand.

He smiled, a sad smile that seemed out of place on him. Then he whispered something hoarse in Choctaw and allowed his sister to guide him back to his seat.

Marco couldn't move, but if he'd been able, he would have begged Eren to stay.

Marco is glad he doesn't remember every face that looked down at him that day, but Eren's is one he never forgets.

 

Burial was perhaps the most terrifying.

They don't actually  _bury_  the dead in New Orleans. Not since they found out doing it makes coffins pop back up in the rain. No, in New Orleans you're put in the family mausoleum.

Marco's casket slid in, taking the place of his grandfather who was moved to another empty slot, and concrete was fixed in place to trap him inside.

With no way to see outside, Marco couldn't tell how long his family lingered. If anyone stayed to say more goodbyes.

The silence was maddening.

At the funeral, in the hospital, and in the ambulance, there had been _people_. Noises.

Inside the tombs, there was no noise. Not even blood rushing through your skull.

There was only silence.

 

 

 Silence. _  
_

 

Silence. 

 

 

_Silence_.

 

 

 

_yellow eyes_

 

 

 

 

_cold hands_

 

 

 

 

 

_“It's time ya wake up, boy. It's your turn now.”_

Marco Bodt wakes up in October, 1915, to his brother Maurice shaking him awake with tears in his eyes.

“Marco! Marco, Gramma's dead!”

Marco's eyes jerk open. He sits up, his brother stepping back still sniffling, and Marco begins to shake. He frantically looks around— This is his room. His things are everywhere. He touches his face and finds no bruising, no cuts; his tongue runs along teeth that are still in his jaw. He looks down at his hands. They're shaking, but okay. There's blood in his veins. His heart is beating.

Maurice sniffles again and Marco meets his eyes. Maurice is still Maurice. His hair is still springy and curled. It isn't combed down like it was at the funeral. Maurice is crying, sniffling, and shaking his shoulders, but his eyes don't hold fear. But they should.

Marco was dead.

He was dead, but somehow he's back in his bed.

“M-Marco, she's dead! Mama found her this mornin'. I don't know what happened!”

Marco pulls back the covers and stands. Maurice backs up and sniffles again in confusion over his brother's behavior. Marco’s legs wobble, fear eating him alive when he feels no pain in his ribs, no bruising or muscle strain from disuse, and no stiffness from rigor mortis. He runs over the creaky wood floor to Gramma's bedroom down the hall. He passes frame after frame of family pictures, of memories that should have come to an end because Marco was  _dead_ —

His mother is closing the door, and she looks at him with sad eyes before shaking her head.

Marco barely manages to reach a trashcan before he vomits.

 

His own funeral was terrible. Gramma's is something else entirely.

Marco can only stare numbly ahead, tuning out the crying around him and the drawling voice of the preacher. The casket they put her in is the same one he was buried in. The same mortician handled her body.

The same relatives saying the same things.

When it's time for Marco to say his goodbye, he looks down at his grandmother to see her hands placed over her heart.

He has a panic attack in the church and has to be taken away. They chalk it up to grief.

 

When Marco is fifteen and freshly undead, Eren finds him hiding in the barn crying. He's still dressed for the funeral and shaking like a leaf.

He cries even more when Eren's eyes meet his. He buries his head in Eren's chest and stops holding back. He lets out the hard, shaking sobs that have wanted to come out since he woke up again. Since he checked the road and found no blood stain. Since he watched his grandmother take his place in the family tomb.

Eren promises he'll stay until Marco is ready to leave. Marco remembers Eren walking away with Mikasa and it only makes him so much more  _desperate_ to stay. When his crying lessens into soft trembles and swollen eyes, Eren's hands gently carding through his hair, he makes the first conversation he's had since he woke up again in his bed.

“E-Eren? Do I s-seem different to you? At all?” He isn't sure he  _wants_  Eren to remember. But he searches Eren's eyes anyway because Eren is always honest. He can count on Eren to let him know if even the slightest memory is there. He can count on Eren to let him know if he's a monster.

What do you call someone who rises from the dead anyway? He isn't mindless. He's not a zombie. Is he a lich?  _Is he human at all_?

Eren wipes a tear away and answers him in a gentle voice. “No. Of course not. You're the same Marco as ever.”

Marco cries harder. Out of relief or fear, he doesn't know.

He shouldn't have to deal with this.

He's only fifteen.

 

In October, 1920, Marco Bodt wakes in a cold sweat, the memory of the barn flashing behind his eyelids as a warm body next to him shifts from Marco’s movements. Frieda Reiss’s words ring louder and louder in his skull as the memories that made up his dream swirl around in a dreadful reminder. He feels the cold hands that lifted him from the dead again. He feels them pulling and it makes his heart clench and his teeth chatter.

New hands, warmer hands that soothe the fear, pull him closer and Marco sighs in relief when he feels Eren’s warm breath against his neck. He clamps down on his shaking and focuses on Eren’s warmth. He’s alive. He’s safe. He isn’t in the coffin anymore. Marco rolls so he can wrap his arms around Eren in return, who makes a pleased noise and curls into Marco’s touch. He doesn’t need to wake Eren anyway. This is the first time since he got that damn letter that he’s slept soundly. Days have passed with Marco waking up to find Eren’s clothes piled on the floor and the sounds of howling echoing from the trees. Days have passed with Marco having the same dream and no one to mention it to. He can’t afford to sacrifice this comfort in case it all begins again tomorrow.

Marco pointedly avoids looking at the open bathroom door, but the flash of glowing yellow in the corner of his eye keeps him awake anyway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#22: Marco can still feel the press of Eren's key in his hand from the funeral sometimes. Against Eren's skin it's always warm, but that day it was cold. So very cold. 
> 
> COMMENTS and feedback is greatly appreciated, and don't forget about my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I post extras and talk about fic progress.


	23. The Move: or: Birth of a Violent Nation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These men in their silly hoods find strength in numbers, but underneath they are nothing but cowards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reactions to last weeks chapter are why I write fic at all. 
> 
> Buuut this week is a lot tamer because NEXT week is the week you've all been waiting for. Three updates. Over 3k each. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. The Long Halloween arrives. It's also where I put most of my effort for this arc so I hope you all enjoy it. 
> 
> TW: period typical prejudice, hateful acts

 

 

The ride to move Frieda into the local community is a silent and awkward one.

In the front seat, Mike keeps his expression stony and his head held high. Nanaba does the same. Not to intimidate Frieda, who bowed her head at the sight in silent thanks, but to merely show their status. They are an alpha pair showing a new wolf into the territory. They are protectors and guardians and it is their duty. The notion is lost on the non-wolves in the car, but they don’t seem to care very much. The passengers just leave the elder wolves to their own devices.

Marco is tired. The bags under his eyes are only growing bigger. He thinks of yellow eyes and cold hands and how he has a scarf draped over his mirror at home, too afraid to look into it for fear his reflection will rasp at him in that same deep voice from before. He thinks of Eren curling up next to him at night, trying to ease him into a sleep that’s less fitful. He thinks of Jean awkwardly avoiding them together and how much he’d like it if Jean could stop being stubborn. He thinks of how Frieda  _knew_  what he was. But he says nothing, trying to take a nap with his head bouncing against the glass of the window.

Jean is uncomfortable. Between Eren and Marco, physically and metaphorically, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Eren is still sour about the letter. Marco is tired and worried over  _something_. But what does he have to offer? A pat on the shoulder? The news he’s now fake-dating an heiress? A confession he knows is going to be thrown out because these two are so mushy and  _in love_  or something?

In the end, he keeps his head bowed, staring at his lap and occasionally looking up to see if Marco is okay. Judging from the bumpy road, the poor boy is going to have a nasty lump later.

Eren is tense. His muscles are wound tightly, jaw clenched, waves of fury coming and going as he tries to force it down. He thinks of his father. He thinks of his mother. He thinks of all the people who have taken care of him since he lost his family. He thinks of his eleventh birthday where he crawled into his meager little cot in the Arlert house and refused to leave for two weeks, silently grieving until he overwhelmed himself enough to shift. He thinks of Mr. Hannes explaining the Jaeger case was put on the backburner, and trying to do so in a way where he didn’t have to tell a little boy the police were so far up their own asses they threw it out without looking.

He thinks of the letter, and how he should have burned it.

Frieda is observant. She can see each boy has some sort of problem and they obviously don’t want to discuss it. She can respect that. She reaches up and feels the bumps of the scars on her neck, idly remembering a time where she didn’t want to talk, either.

So she settles for finding something to take their minds off of the problem.

“So, is this community very tight knit? I’ve never lived in one before.”

Mike glances at her via the rearview mirror, lips quirking up. On Eren’s other side, Jean perks up in interest. Marco just blinks and continues trying to sleep with head trauma. “I’d like to think so,” Mike says. “We were born there. Eren’s been coming by since he was what, six?”

“Thirteen,” is Eren’s dry reply.

“Oh? What is it like?” Frieda leans forward.

“Well, it  _is_ pretty tight knit. To an extent. Everyone knows everyone and we all look out for each other,” Nanaba chimes in. “It’s like its own small town. You can find most of everything you need in the center and you don’t have to leave to find a job.”

“A few of the packs turned their cabin clusters into little farms. The shop in the center gets most of its produce from them.” Mike takes one hand off the wheel to rub his chin, clicking his tongue in thought. “The Munsell pack just started up something in their little area. I think it’s woodworking. Been talkin’ with their alpha about getting some new furniture.”

“So each pack gets its own area?” Frieda asks.

Eren finally speaks up, glum tone sticking to his voice. “It’s a wolf thing. We can’t really stand being too close to another pack’s territory. We can all go into the center and be friendly, but once we’re at home, the last thing we want is to see another pack wanderin' too close.”

“Hm. Uncle lived alone in a large property, so I guess I never noticed.” Frieda reaches into her purse and fishes out a notebook, scribbling down a note to look into later. “And they’re all cabins?”

“There’s a sense of pride in building your own home.” Mike shrugs. “It’s a tradition, almost. But if you move into one that another pack abandoned, it’s not exactly a crime.”

“Speaking of which,” Nanaba interrupts. “Old Man Thompson is about to keel over and his pack is leaving when he does. We need to divvy up his animals. I already mentioned you want the horses.”

Mike smiles and his fantasy of breeding little foals blooms in front of his eyelids. Eren and Nanaba roll their eyes; they’ve heard too much about this particular dream.

Jean pokes his head up and bites his lip. “Um…by the way, is there anything I should know? Before we get there? So I don’t… I don’t know…say something stupid and offend someone?”

“You haven’t offended me in a few weeks. Your record’s gettin’ better,” Eren remarks. He still sounds down and somewhat angry, so the joke dissipates into the air uncomfortably.

Mike verbally scoots in to sweep the awkward moment away. “We aren’t takin’ you all on a big grand tour yet, but…I guess touching is a thing we should cover.”

“Touching?” Jean clarifies.

“Yep. Don’t do it. Touching is a sin.” Mike nods. “If they aren’t in your pack, you don’t touch them. If you touch someone’s mate or their pup, then no one is going to help you when you get your arms torn off.”

Jean’s eyes go wide and he sinks into his seat a bit. As cuddly and affectionate as Eren is, Jean didn’t see this rule coming.

“Are there any safety issues?” Frieda asks. “I grew up surrounded by fences and walls. Is the community protected?”

“It’s open,” Nanaba says. “We don’t like fences. We leave a majority of the trees up, too. Gives us things to run around in. But pack alphas are generally responsible for safety.”

“If a bad situation arises, all the pack leaders get together and find solutions. We don’t call the police unless it’s a last resort,” Mike adds.

“Not like they’d do shit anyway,” Eren mutters.

Nanaba growls as a warning. This is a conversation they’ve had too many times. “ _Eren_.”

“What? It’s true. Last time you needed them, it took them two hours to come out!” Eren throws his arms up in frustration. Frieda gently moves one of them out of the way and leans forward again.

“I don’t have a pack at the moment. Will I still be safe?”

“We’re in charge of you until you form your own pack or join one. You don’t need to worry.” Nanaba reaches back and gives a pat to Frieda’s hand, just a small touch that means so much more to the young wolf.

Frieda is abated by this and nods before leaning back in her seat. Eren crosses his arms and resumes his brooding. The last few clusters of messy shops and gas stations pass them by to make way for even bumpier dirt roads and trees.

Marco officially gives up on napping when an unexpected pothole slams his forehead against the window. He blinks the stars from his eyes as Frieda cringes in sympathy, Eren checking for blood from his seat, and squints past the dirt cloud being stirred up by their tires.

“Is there somethin’ on the road?”

“Potholes,” Mike replies.

“No, I see something else.” Marco shakes his head. “Through the trees.”

“He’s right.” Nanaba sits up and squints. Jean sits up and leans toward the window to look, Eren tensing and Frieda clutching her purse tighter. “Mike, slow down.”

The car slows, everyone tilting forward in their seats a bit, and for a moment, there’s silence. Then the two wolves in the front tense and Nanaba looks back with worry in her eyes.

“Kids, put your heads down.”

“What’s going on?” Jean asks.

“Heads down! Now!”

There’s a fast moment where the occupants of the back seat all duck down, Eren pressing one hand to the back of Jean’s head to make sure he stays down and Marco covering himself with his arms. Frieda uses her purse and tries to fit herself neatly between her legs.

Then the banging begins.

Mike curses loudly, growling in aggression as the car slows to a stop and something begins hitting the car.  Jean tries to lift his head to look but Eren forces him down.

“Don’t let them see your face, stupid!”

The banging increases, the sound of something wet hitting the windows and voices yelling from outside. At first it’s nonsensical. White noise.

But then words start to form. From the mass of noise comes sentences, words like “mutts” and “merlins” and “dogs”— _slurs_  being thrown at the car as the banging increases and Nanaba makes a horrid growling noise.

A particularly loud thump against the car is followed by Nanaba yelling, “What are they doing all the way out here?”

“Stirrin’ shit. What else would they be doing?” Mike sounds angry, tired but furious as the car is forced to go even slower by whatever is outside.

In the backseat, Jean tilts his head side to side. He can’t see out the windows but he can see Eren and Marco. Marco is keeping himself low. Jean can’t see his face, but the tension in Marco’s arms tells Jean what he needs to know. When Jean looks to Eren, he only sees a clenched jaw and a disgusted expression.

“What’s going on?”

“Protest,” Eren mutters. “They do this sometimes. ‘Cept usually they find someone to string up.” He glances at Jean before pressing his face back down. “Don’t let them see you.”

There are more wet sounds, more slurs and screams and banging against the window until a loud  _crack_ makes Frieda scream and Marco jump. Mike rumbles out a deep growl and slams his foot against the gas. There are more thumps, this time distinctly from the  _car_  hitting something as the tires screech against the dirt road.

Everyone is tense as the sounds of yelling fade and the sound of the engine takes over.

After a moment, Nanaba tells the kids they can sit up again, and they slowly rise.

Jean feels sick when he sees red all over the windows. He smells copper and gags. Eren sniffs the air and cringes.

“Fucking  _clan_ —”

“The clan? This close?” Frieda asks shakily. Eren leans into her a bit in comfort, cringing when he sees a rubber wolf mask trapped in the corner of the cracked windshield. It’s smashed against the glass into a rather distorted expression, but the rubber snout and fangs are clear.

“They’ve been acting up all month,” Mike hisses. “Telling folks that Halloween is glorifying the inferior or something.”

“It ain’t glorifyin’. It’s mocking,” Eren growls. He stares the mask in the eye and resists jumping into the front seat to put his fist through the glass.

“Are they—? Are they going to get worse?” Jean asks. He glances to Marco and finds the Creole boy keeping his head down as his shoulders shake.

“Don’t know.” Mike shifts in his seat, looking back through the rearview mirror before meeting eyes with his mate. “…but staying in on Halloween might be safe this year.”

Jean’s face crumbles. “Is this what it’s always like? How are they legal—? They can’t just—”

“They  _can_  and half the police force are with ’em,” Eren hisses. Jean slumps into his seat and Eren looks ahead, clenching his jaw once more and gripping his knee tightly. There is an argument that wants to erupt, a tenseness set into place, but the adrenaline is wearing off so the boys settle for avoiding eye contact as they cross the line into wolf territory.

The rest of the ride is silent. The rubber mask stares at them all until Eren tears it off the windshield when they park at the cabin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #23: Werewolves can almost never find places to live in cities. No one wants to rent to wolves, no one wants to give them loans. 
> 
> COMMENTS make for a happy and merciful author! As always, be sure to visit my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I post extra material and talk about update progress! I'll see you all Tuesday!


	24. The Long Halloween: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~See I was dead when I woke up this morning
> 
>  
> 
> I'll be dead before the day is done~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The culmination of all my efforts comes together with this final week. I wore myself out writing and rewriting and going over notes. I offer a huge thanks to the support and feedback I've gotten so far and I hope you all enjoy what I've done. 
> 
> Now sit back and enjoy part 1 of The Long Halloween. Next update is this Thursday.

 

Annie Leonhardt has a peculiar quirk.

She’s had it for so long the Smith children no longer find it odd at all. It’s simply become another thing about Annie that’s plain as day. A thing like Annie being blonde, or the fact she’s a witch, or the fact she’s fond of hats.

None of them think twice about the fact she regularly has prophecies of doom.

Now,  _doom_ is a strong word but Annie has always delivered her messages in a tone that highly suggests it as a possibility. And each warning is treated seriously, because even if it’s silly, it always comes to pass. Her warnings range from little things like Hanji plucking Erwin’s eyebrows to an ominous insistence not to trust the banks.

So on Halloween, when she wakes and trudges down to the chaos that is the breakfast table still in her sleeping gown, no one thinks twice when she sits in her chair and utters in a low voice.

“Beasts are coming.”

Everyone takes those words in as the warning it is. Then breakfasts returns to normal, and Annie reaches for jam to put on her toast.

 

 

Halloween dawns on New Orleans in a way expected of the south.

Which is to say everything turns into a party. The radios play nothing but adverts for candy and dance halls. Children run around their homes and their streets in their costumes long before it’s time to hunt for candy. Shops erupt in pumpkins and wooden skeletons. Jack-o-lanterns pop up on porches at an alarming rate. Jean himself comes home on Friday and jumps when he sees every inch of the house foyer decorated in leaves and mini pumpkins.

He feels fairly neutral about it all, but maybe that’s because this holiday doesn’t exist in France.

Jean wakes on that Sunday morning to the smell of pumpkin permeating the air of his bedroom, stomach rumbling with the realization the elderly woman his mother hired to cook is making pie. He loves that grandmother more than he cares to admit and the thought of eating one of her desserts lifts his mood considerably. It seems like a bright spot among the bleak expectations he has for this holiday.

Marco doesn’t go out on Halloween, apparently. Jean had asked when they were moving Frieda in and Marco just made a face. He explained he stays in and reads and feasts on leftover treats that may be laying around the house.

Eren  _hates_  Halloween, which Jean found out when Eren spent the entire move ranting about how it was a horrible holiday that only served to mock people like him and to spread the lie they were monsters. Jean believes him on that. The rubber werewolf mask lurks behind his eyelids and with it comes thoughts of all the costumes he’s seen in storefronts this month.

Now that he thinks about it, he’s starting to become furiously offended at it all. He spends all year hiding what he is and these people have the gall to dress up as a stereotype and  _laugh_.

Eren apparently spends his Halloweens with Mina. She and her large Spanish family spend the night at their home making food and decorations for a trip to the graveyard. Eren explained that in Mexico they have something different, and Mina’s family celebrates that instead. He finds it an infinitely more pleasing alternative to watching small children dress like monster werewolves and run up and down the streets.

Which leaves Jean without plans.

Which Hitch takes advantage of so quickly his head spins.

His not-quite-real girlfriend is coming over for dinner before the two of them run away to a romantic getaway in the parties going on downtown. His parents are ecstatic at the news.

They don’t need to know Hitch is really going to run off with her secret boyfriend and leave Jean with the car running. But that’s for the best.

Jean dresses for the day with a sigh, putting on a fitted suit and reluctantly fitting himself with a horrendously orange bowtie. Hitch is wearing some orange and black festive number and told him he needs to match  _or else_. He slips the Kirschstein family wand into his pocket and styles his hair. Today is a day he is going to spend among people he can’t really trust or open up around, and he needs to find a way to grit his teeth.

Staring at himself in the mirror, he breathes in deeply before plastering the fakest smile he can on his face.

Showtime.

 

Being a socialite has at least gifted Jean the ability to smile through sheer discomfort. He’s gotten a lot of mileage out of this talent and as he sweats through dinner, he blesses the fact he’s been forced to do this so many times. He had no idea that faking being in love is this difficult. There’s something about Jean’s mother in her pearls and his father in his suit that just intimidates Jean to the point where he nearly screams “It’s all a sham!” the second they sit down.

“So then Daddy says, ‘Well, honey, if you want it that badly…’ and I ended up sitting front and center in the Mardi Gras parade!” Hitch laughs at her own story, dragging Jean’s mother into a fit of giggles that make the two drop their spoons into their soup. Jean’s father chuckles and nods along.

Jean himself has tuned out a majority of the story. He really doesn’t care.

“Oh, Jeanbo, where did you find this one? She’s precious!” Jean’s mother coos. Hitch positively glows under the praise, sending Jean a look of satisfaction disguised as affection before her ruby lips begin spinning another story.

“Oh, it was  _magical_ ,Mrs. Kirschstein.” She takes Jean’s hand, causing him to flush and drop his silverware. He resists glaring at her for her choice in adjectives. “We met on the steps of the school. I dropped my books and he stopped everything he was doing to help me. He even walked me to class.”

“Such a gentleman, my boy,” Jean’s father cuts in.

“It was nothing,” Jean mutters, looking away.

“I was positively enchanted by his manners.” Jean does squint at her for that one, but Hitch brushes it off as him being bashful by patting his shoulder. “He carried my books, held doors open, greeted me every morning with a smile— I swear, one day he even brought me a flower to put in my hair.”

Mrs. Kirschstein emits a squealing noise, placing her hands over her mouth as she smiles.

“You don’t cut any corners, do you, son?” Mr. Kirschstein raises his wine glass in respect. Jean feels ashamed at that. He’s always happy when his father is proud, but this is a lie. It’s a horrible lie. It’s a lie spun by an expert liar, and Hitch doesn’t seem the least bit bothered.

He thinks of Eren and Marco. He wonders if they lie like this, too, when they have to face the world.

“ _Maman_  always told me to treat a woman like royalty.” He nervously smiles, feeling sick in his stomach when his mother wears a look of utter pride.

“At the rate you’re going, we’re going to have wedding bells before the year is up.”

“ _Maman_!” Jean flushes.

“What? Am I not allowed to be hopeful?” His mother sips at her wine innocently, Hitch laughing and holding on to Jean’s hand with her nails embedded in his skin.

“I wouldn’t be completely objected to the idea.” Hitch giggles. “Hitch Kirschstein does have a ring to it, don’t you think?”

“You’ve picked an ambitious one.” Mr. Kirschstein winks.

“What can I say? I like my women to have spitfire.”  Jean shrugs. He cringes inwardly at the words but his father laughs, loud and booming, and Hitch runs a hand up his arm in a way that can only be read as “good job.” The lie hangs above the table as delicately as a cloud, one only visible to Jean as it grows with the conversation.

He offhandedly wonders when the lie will become big enough to become a storm.

Maids shuffle in and out of the dining room, exchanging their soup platters with new steaming dishes fresh from the kitchen. Jean is the only one to say his thanks and the maid blinks at him in surprise before shuffling away to remain out of sight. Hitch looks at him questioningly before rolling her eyes and digging into her food. Jean takes a moment before doing the same and he’s glad for the momentary pause in conversation.

Of course, it’s his mother who starts it up again, patting her mouth with her napkin before turning to Hitch with the glint of gossip in her eye.

“So, have you heard about Baldo’s boy?”

“About his little  _indiscretion_?” Hitch glances at Jean, a pang of worry actually seeming to dot her features before she slides all too easily into her mask and leans forward to accept the gab his mother seems so fond of.

“That little indiscretion wasn’t so little after all.” Mrs. Kirschstein places her hand to her chest, shaking her head in a “bless his heart” motion she’s absorbed from the other southern mothers since coming to America. “The  _little_  indiscretion turned out to be a  _large_  man named Frederick.”

 “ _No_ ,” Hitch gasps. Jean freezes in horror. Twenty different scenarios run through his mind and his palms begin to sweat as his father only shakes his head at his mother’s penchant to spread rumors.

“Yes. Caught the two of them red handed. Baldo’s so distraught; he wants to send his boy off to make sure that little ruffian won’t put any more ideas in his head.” Mrs. Kirschstein  _tuts_. “I can’t imagine how his poor family is handling this news.”

Jean grips his silverware in terror. Memories of lips pressed to his bleed to the forefront of his mind and for a moment, he’s mortified at their very presence. The irrational fear of having his mind read makes him squirm in his seat only to stop when his father looks at him oddly. Hitch puts her hand on his and  _grips_ , dragging Jean back down to Earth and reminding him he can’t afford to quit now. So Jean swallows down the fear and stuffs more food into his mouth for an excuse not to talk.

“I never would have thought he was a homosexual,” Mrs. Kirschstein goes on. “Everyone I talk to says they wear women’s clothes and have long hair. Baldo’s boy only wears suits.”

“You can’t believe everything you hear,” Hitch laughs. Jean feels her pat his hand and wonders if he’s receiving genuine sympathy. Coming from Hitch, that seems a bit much. He’s seen her ruthlessness in person too many times to feel like she can give genuine  _anything_.  It might sound mean, but Jean reckons once you’ve seen a freshman girl leave the English hall in tears via Hitch, it’s more than enough evidence.

But the conversation goes on and Jean’s musing on Hitch’s humanity is ignored. “Apparently. Goodness, in France we never had this sort of scandal.”

“Oh?” Hitch tilts her head.

“At least not where  _we_  lived. This sort of thing wasn’t conversation at all.”

“The only conversations seemed to have the word ‘war’ in them,” Mr. Kirschstein mutters. “The world was going to hell, I swear.”

“Orson dear, relax. Those days are behind us now,” Mrs. Kirschstein soothes before turning back to Hitch. “Americans seem to find so much  _entertainment_  in this type of talk.”

“We’re all about entertainment.” Hitch laughs. “Especially down here in The Big Easy.”

“It’s marvelous, though. Orson and I took a carriage ride the other day—” Jean stops listening to his mother to shovel more food in his mouth, silently thanking the elderly grandmother in the kitchen for her delicious roast beef and its distraction capabilities. He sees more maids scuttle in and out of the room and it hits him in the chest to realize that all of these women are working on a holiday.

His parents don’t seem bothered by it. Hitch doesn’t, either. It bothers Jean more than it should. Does the elderly woman in the kitchen have a family that misses her?

He jumps when one of the maids taps him on the shoulder. She’s one of the younger maids, a recent hire with wide hazel eyes and dark skin that clashes too much with the work clothes the Kirschstein house staff are mandated to wear. She looks nervous and Jean realizes why when he sees his father narrowing his eyes at the girl who had the gall to interrupt dinner.

“I’m so sorry, Master Kirschstein. It’s just, um—”

“It’s fine,” Jean interrupts. Hitch and his mother are still talking without a care and he feels too thankful. “What is it?”

“Phone for you, sir. It’s a girl—” She pauses and looks at Hitch with worry, Jean flushing when he realizes how things look. “She says her name is Mina?”

Jean rises immediately and makes his way to the hallway phone line. The receiver is on the table awaiting him and before he picks it up, he can hear a Spanish rant flying a thousand miles a minute. Jean actually has to hold it away from his ear for a moment with the ferocity that Mina is screeching. This must be serious. He waits for her to slow a bit, her breath running out before her words, before interrupting and turning his back to the dining room door in case someone tries to listen in.

“Mina? Mina, it’s me—”

“Jean— Jean, I don’t give a flying  _fuck_  what you’re doing tonight. Come to the house right now.”

“I’m having dinner with my family.” Jean sighs. “Can’t this wait?”

“No! No, it can’t wait! It’s an emergency and Erwin wants everyone to group at the house!”

Jean tenses and looks at the receiver for a moment before pressing it back to his ear. “What?”

“Emergency. SOS. There’s a real problem and Eren and I are about to leave.”

“Eren’s with you? Why isn’t he the one calling?”

“He’s getting ready to handle the emergency. Now get your shit together! Marco and Frieda are coming over to get you.”

Marco and Frieda? Jean’s confusion makes its way to his face and he wrinkles his nose. What are those two doing together? Frieda is supposed to be with Mike and his pack. “Why can’t I just drive?”

“They were already together when the news reached them. They were doing something about Frieda’s sister? I don’t know— Just get your coat and wait out front.”

“Mina, wait—” Mina hangs up and Jean is left with the empty tone of the phone line. He sighs and groans in frustration. He can’t just ditch Hitch. Even _if_  she was planning to ditch him first. What can he tell his parents? Is a work emergency good enough to warrant skipping out on his first family meal with his fake girlfriend?

He enters the dining room again stiffly and stops before reaching the table. His parents look at him in question and Hitch narrows her eyes. Oh, he’s going to feel her wrath for this.

“Um— Someone from work called. I have to go in.” The maid who tapped his shoulder looks to the floor. Jean is now overly aware of what the situation looks like, and he hopes “Jean Kirschstein: Cheating Boyfriend” doesn’t spread around the house anytime soon.

“But, Jeanbo, you have company!” his mother scoffs. “It would be so rude of you to run out now. Can’t Mr. Smith call someone else?”

Jean averts his eyes from his mother’s face to find Hitch staring at him. She looks ready to tear his head off and Jean is sorely tempted to step back a bit to avoid the explosion of her anger.

“It’s an emergency, _Maman_. He’s calling everyone.”

“It’s a holiday, Jean. You can afford a day off.” Mr. Kirschstein shakes his head. “Do you want me to call Mr. Smith and set things straight?”

A rock forms in Jean’s stomach at the thought of his father talking to Erwin. He knows Erwin isn’t stupid enough to upfront admit what he has Jean doing, but his father isn’t an idiot, either. “No, no, it’s not— My coworkers are already on their way. I promise I’ll make it up—”

His mother cuts him off and Hitch sighs, glaring at Jean with a silent “What have you done?” that Jean can only shrug to.

“No! We’ve been waiting for years for you to bring someone home. You can’t just run out! How will you ever get married this way?”

“ _Maman_!”

“I’m just looking out for you, dear. You’re about that age.”

Jean shakes his head and tries valiantly to ignore his mother. “I’m sorry. Hitch, enjoy yourself tonight. I’m  _really_  sorry—”

Hitch taps her fingers on the table and gives Jean a stare so cold he shivers. “You’ll make up for it.” He’ll probably make up for it with his life, but he doesn’t really have the time to argue.  He only nods and steps out into the hall, hearing vague shouting noises outside while his mother calls for him to come back and finish dinner.

He grabs his coat from the rack and curses when he sees the outline of a car parked outside. Vague shouting noises that are too similar to Marco’s voice draw him closer to the door and Jean hopes he hasn’t been at it for too long. Several of his neighbors wouldn’t take too kindly to Marco’s presence and the shouting would only increase the animosity.

“Jean! Listen to your mother and come back!”

Jean cringes at his father’s tone but opens the door. He curses how this day is turning out. He curses while crossing the porch. He curses when he sees Marco shouting and waving for him at the front gate.

“Jean!” He stops on the porch and turns around, his father staring him down from the door. “Stop this and come inside. You’re being rude.”

“Hitch understands. I need to—” Jean gestures toward Marco and his insides curl when he sees the put off expression on his father’s face. “I need to go.”

“You didn’t tell me Mr. Smith had you working with colored boys,” Mr. Kirschstein mutters.

Jean glares and steps toward the car. “Does it  _matter_? He’s already here. I’m going—”

His father drops his voice lower, down to that tone Jean only hears when some sort of cardinal sin of the household has been committed. The tone that makes him tense and stop and his brain scream for him to just do as he’s commanded. “No, you’re going to come _inside_.”

Commotion to the side draws Mr. Kirschstein’s attention away and an odd clicking noise makes Jean momentarily forget he was just given an order.

At the gate, Marco asks if Jean’s okay. Jean wants to answer  _yes_. He wants to answer but his father is still keeping him rooted to the porch.

“Dad, my job is really important—” The clicking noise returns in abundance and a tingling feeling sets off small alarms in Jean’s skull. “What’s that noise?”

“It’s nothing. Now stop being a child.”

Jean shakes. He sees red, the condescending tone in his father’s voice making his ears ring and a burst of courage fills his lungs. “I’ll stop when  _you_ stop to listen! We’ll talk about this when I get back.” And with that, he turns to leave. His father reaches for his sleeve but Jean steps out of his range, tugging on his coat and keeping a fast pace down the walkway.

The next few seconds pass as quickly as seconds do. But when Jean is asked about them time and time again, he swears it took eons.

The first noise is his father shouting his name, his mother and Hitch waiting in the doorway as Jean keeps his pace toward the car.

Then comes the boom. Cannon fire compressed into a much smaller barrel. The noise startles everyone, his father jumping toward his wife, and the world going still as the echo lingers in the air.

In the silence that follows, Jean freezes in mute horror when he slowly realizes that Marco’s face is covered in red, and the Creole boy slowly crumples to the ground. A scream from inside the car, windows spattered with Marco’s blood, doesn’t even make a blip on Jean’s mental radar as he slowly turns to see his elderly neighbor holding a gun and looking proud. Marco is on the ground bleeding, a gaping hole where his eye used to be, and this person is  _proud_.

Halloween night begins with an old man with a gun proclaiming he “took care of that hell raisin’ negro,” and Jean Kirschstein screaming bloody murder as he kneels over the body of his friend.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#24: Marco drove Frieda out to the bar to meet one Christa Lenz when they got the emergency call. Annie's prophecy came true.
> 
> COMMENTS are appreciated greatly, as are visits to my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn)
> 
> and just a reminder that the [OFFICIAL PLAYLIST](http://8tracks.com/shingekicorn/bootleggers-the-long-halloween#smart_id=dj:16460790) ties directly into these final three chapters


	25. The Long Halloween: 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~I can't decide, whether you should live or die
> 
> Oh you'll prob'ly go to heaven, please don't hang your head and cry~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can name all of the fic shout outs I did in this chapter you'll win a prize. I cannot resist opportunities to make shout outs to fics by talented authors. 
> 
> Tuesday just about KILLED all ya'll so I look forward to the flooding of the inbox again. After this we only have one more chapter to go and we'll slow down in time for the holiday season. 
> 
> TW: death mention, bodily harm

 

 

The Halloween moon dawns in the sky with the second death of Marco Bodt in the New Orleans Garden District.

Dying isn’t pleasant.

Marco knows this.

_Jean._

_Jean Jean Jean Jean Jean._

_Jean screaming. Crying. Why. Why why why why why why why why why why why. Dark. Everything dark why Jean why why why._

Dying a second time isn’t as painful as the first in the physical sense. Marco knows what it feels like to have everything shut down slowly. This time it’s faster.

He wishes he could erase the look on Jean’s face, though.

_No cry no cry no cry no cry no cry._

This time darkness takes over quickly, but instead of still seeing the world around him, it overtakes his eyes. He’s sure this time it’s permanent.

As the last of the light fades away, Marco hopes Eren will be okay without him.

_Eren._

_Eren Eren Eren Eren. Eren no cry. Eren no cry no soft words Eren love Eren court Eren no no no no no no no no no no._

Frieda is screaming. Christa—Historia?—is whimpering in the backseat. The world moves but Marco doesn’t feel it. Jean is heaving. Frieda screams in anger, in  _fury_ , and Jean makes a noise, and the world keeps moving as soft hands stroke Marco’s cooling skin.

He never got to tell Jean about Christa. He was going to tell him first thing tomorrow. Christa isn’t Christa at all.

_Weightless._

_Weightless nothing dark scary so scared why why why why. Dead dying dead Jean no._

_Weightless dark dark dark._

_Light?_

_Light._

_Follow light._

_Follow follow follow follow follow._

_No no no no._

_NO NO NO._

_NO._

_NO._

_EVERYTHING NOTHING EVERYTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING._

_EVERYTHING._

_Giants._

_Giant run giants eat._

_Eren giant run Eren hurt Eren win._

_Eren monster monster large steam roar roar roar roar green eyes glow glow. Eren lifts Eren saves Jean help help Jean new gear new gear new gear Annie why Annie help pain pain no don’t Trost has fallen no don’t I don’t want to die I don’t want to die a worthless death Annie no._

_Jean gun gun shoot shoot shoot bank darling no monster monster monster monster you’re a monster. Eren hates Eren hates Jean love love love no don’t don’t shoot don’t. Not monster. Not monster beautiful Jean beautiful._

_They hunt us they hunt us Eren move move move no help Jean Jean can’t he’s not a soldier like us Eren no help him help him EREN NO I’M OKAY I’M OKAY I’M OKAY I’M OKAY I’M OKAY PLEASE DON’T._

_The dead rise the dead rise Eren eats them he eats them all Jean no Jean run run run run run._

_Jean needs your help you’re dead now help him help him no Jean don’t don’t he has your soul don’t become one of them don’t no no no no no no no no no no the woman speaks lies she is no angel she is no angel she is a liar liar liar she has Mina take her away take her far away._

_Protect Jean protect Jean Armin shoot Armin no no not Armin Armin don’t. Jean innocent guilty guilty guilty no the arm where is his arm where did it go why can’t he feel his arm where where where where. Where. Annie didn’t mean it no._

_They’re wrong about you they’re so wrong help them help them they aren’t monsters they’re people they love love love love hide Eren hide Eren they’re coming they’re hunting Eren no control control control powers too powerful too powerful too powerful no run both of you._

_Eren scars scar on his face scar why is it so familiar Eren Eren Eren Eren. Liar. Liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar you’re a liar you’re a liar._

_Jean Jean walks thin line Jean dead but not dead but not dead but not flowers flowers bloom on Jean’s skin pray pray pray to the elder gods pray the world is so large you aren’t alone pray pray pray pray pray._

_The giants the giants they eat humans protect the humans defend the wall defend the wall defend the wall humanity needs you don’t die a pointless death don’t know don’t don’t don’t don’t._

_Don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t die._

_Seven nights seven moons seven gates seven tombs_

_Seven nights seven moons seven gates seven tombs_

_Seven nights seven moons seven gates seven tombs_

_Seven nights seven moons seven gates seven tombs_

_Seven nights seven moons seven gates seven tombs_

_Seven nights seven moons seven gates seven tombs_

Images flash with information too quickly. As soon as one registers in Marco’s mind, another comes and takes its place with reckless abandon. It continues on. On and on and on and on and on and on. Eons. An eternity.

Purgatory is spent with flashing images and too many worlds passing in front of Marco’s eye. His mind is torn apart and pieced together too many times. Darkness is the only thing aside from the brief flashes of lives that are his but also not his.

Himself with lighter skin and unfamiliar muscles, soaring through the air with swords.

Himself by Jean’s side, the smell of cigarettes clinging to his clothes as he smiles through a bloody nose.

Eren grinning that sharp toothed grin of his, metal bits in his ears and brows and nose.

These are his friends and loved ones but they  _aren’t_.

When it stops, Marco shakes. He shakes with a ferocity that makes cold sweat fly off his skin, a ferocity that makes his teeth chatter together with loud clacks and his fingers and toes curl into nothing. He breathes but it doesn’t feel like breathing. He opens his eyes to find only one eye works, only one and all he can see is the dark.

He hates the dark. He doesn’t want to be here. Not again.

“In a way you’re lucky. Very few ever get to see what you just did.”

Marco startles and whirls his head to find the voice. It’s deep. It’s akin to bricks dropping onto concrete; it hooks him in and anchors him down with fear and hope and salvation and desperation all in one melting pot of overwhelming emotion.

Marco swallows, shaking and gasping and sweating, when his eyes meet yellow and the reflection he’s spent so long avoiding is staring back at him.

He blinks and suddenly they’re sitting. The reflection crosses his legs and leans back, folding his hands and watching Marco idly with a bemused expression. This world makes no sense. Nothing makes sense. Marco blinks again and there’s a table. He thinks it’s a table. True shape and true  _being_  doesn’t seem real. Why isn’t it real? Where is he? The table. Focus on the table. The reflection is propping his elbows on it.

“Are you quite done? I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”

Marco tries to speak. A crackled croak escapes.

“Good enough.” The reflection shrugs. Marco feels the cold sweat slip down his neck, soak his shirt through as he valiantly tries to blink away the darkness in his other eye. The reflection tilts his head. Examines him. Slowly rises from the seat that shouldn’t exist but does, and before Marco can protest, fingers that are his but not grip his hair and tilt his head back.

“I suppose I should fix this.” He raises his other hand and presses it over Marco’s eye.

Marco screams when everything goes yellow and searing fire burns into his skull.

 

 

“Oh, my god. He’s dead. He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead— Oh, my god—” Jean rocks in his seat, shaking and alternating between gripping his hair too tightly and biting down on his fingernails. His eyes feel sore and swollen from tears but he doesn’t care. His pants are coated in blood and it spreads to his hands when he grips his knees to prevent himself from screaming. It doesn’t work and he screams more when his hands smear red on his face and the taste of copper bleeds to his lips.

Frieda stares ahead with her foot on the gas pedal. She’s just as stained as Jean is, but instead of hysterics, she seems to take refuge in fury.

She had jumped out of the car to scream orders. Orders for Jean to help her move Marco into the car. Orders for the neighbor to go back inside. Orders for Jean to “Stop crying, dammit—” and hop in so they could leave.

Sweet Frieda isn’t sweet after all, and her anger is the only thing holding them all together.

Jean isn’t sure anything is real right now. Marco’s body is in the backseat, head placed on Christa’s lap as she rips apart her skirt in an attempt to bandage the gaping hole where Marco’s eye used to be. Jean barely remembers the argument the two girls were having when they left. There was so much screaming, so much panic…

Jean heaves again, a sob mixed with a scream ripping its way past his lips. What is he going to tell Eren? Eren won’t forgive him for this. Eren can forgive him for kissing and for saying stupid things, but getting Marco killed? Not thinking to warn him that his neighbors aren’t forgiving of people like Marco breathing their air?

Eren is going to hate him.

They’ll have to bury Marco and Jean will have to sit at the funeral with accusing stares boring in from all directions. He’ll have to live with Eren hating him forever. He’ll have to live with Marco’s family blaming him because Marco died at  _his_  house on  _his_  watch.

“Fuck.  _FUCK_!” Frieda punches the window and cracks erupt from beneath her fist, a bestial growl rumbling in her chest. Jean doesn’t have the energy to shy away.

“We need to take him to a hospital,” Christa mumbles in the backseat.

“They won’t take him,” Frieda answers. Jean sobs at that. He knows it’s true and it breaks his heart. “He’s black. Poor. The nearest hospital won’t let him in the door, especially if a werewolf and a merlin carry him in.”

“He’s dead—” Jean starts again.

“He’ll be  _fine_!” Frieda snaps, fixing Jean with an angry glare that finally manages to make him shrivel in his seat. “There’s a clan protest downtown. We have to go the long way around. Get him to the house that way. Historia, just watch him until we get there.”

Before he can ask what she just called Christa, a warbled groan in the backseat makes Jean freeze. He turns with hope and more tears slide down his cheeks as Marco’s limp form coughs, blood bubbling past his teeth and leaving little splatters all over Christa’s lap.

He heaves, heaves coughs that sound like hiccups that spill more blood, back arching as Christa tries to hold him down. Frieda keeps her eyes on the road and clenches her jaw.

The coughing ceases when Marco rolls just enough onto his side to point his mouth toward the floor, a small _thunk_  following before he slumps back down. Silent. Unmoving.

Christa stares at the floor in shock and disgust before meeting Jean’s eyes. Her voice tremors on a whisper.

“He coughed up the bullet.”

When the fire in his skull goes away, the reflection’s eyes aren’t yellow anymore. Marco feels tremors all over, pressing his hand to his eye and gasping when he feels tender skin. The reflection sits back down and stares at him with empty black eyes now. They’re so cold. Calculating.

“I hope you appreciate that. I gave you my eyes.” Marco doesn’t know what to say. “I’ve been trying to track you down for years, Bodt.” The reflection taps his fingers on the table, rolling his neck until it pops. “Ever since your grandmother—bless that poor woman—decided to take your place.”

Marco tenses.

“So you  _do_ remember. Good. That shaves off some time.” The reflection smiles.

The smile makes Marco feel sick to his stomach. “…what  _are_  you? Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Me?” The reflections lips curl even more. His head tilts, tilts at an unnatural angle that leaves Marco queasy as lips that aren’t his stretch so wide they seemingly go from ear to ear. There are too many teeth. Too many teeth for a single person to have. “I am many things. I am everywhere and nowhere. I am salvation, and I am despair. I am the shadow that follows you through the streets, the whisper you just barely hear in the night, the movement in the corner of your eye that you  _just can't place_.” His voice drops down to a whisper, and even though he sits across from Marco, Marco hears the voice in his ear like the reflection is standing right next to him. “I have many names, names that range from God to the Devil—but today, I suppose you can call me a friend.”

Marco clenches his hands. “A friend.”

“A friend.” The reflection nods. “Your grandmother thought of me as one.”

A quiet fury settles in Marco’s chest at the mention of his grandmother. “I don’t recall Gramma ever mentioning you.”

“She didn’t mention a lot of things,” the reflection replies in a singsong voice. “She never mentioned how  _her_  grandmother got a bit of a curse placed on the family line. How a necromancer shirked his duties and passed on his cosmic responsibilities to a poor servant girl and the child he didn’t stay to raise.”

Marco knows this story. He knows this story because his grandmother insisted families know themselves, even the gritty bits. But these are details he  _doesn’t_  know and it only ignites the fire inside further. He clenches his jaw and frowns at the reflection, who continues on without a care.

“She never mentioned how the Bodts were considered cursed, when really they’re  _blessed_  by yours truly.” The reflection gestures to himself proudly. He smiles and then drops it abruptly. “She never mentioned how the gift skipped your father and went directly to you.”

Marco blinks and suddenly the reflection is sitting on the table, leaning directly into Marco’s personal space so their faces are millimeters away from each other. Marco takes a shaky breath as his own face stares him down.

“The day you died, she decided she had a long enough life and called me. We settled the terms and I undid what had been done to bring you back.”

“Dead people don’t come back.” Marco shakes his head. “They don’t come back. Their bodies might, but—”

“Most of the time.” He’s silenced by the reflection’s hand clamping over his mouth. “In fact, that’s how I’m used to it being. But this world is different from many others. You and others like you defy that rule.”

Marco wrenches his face away from the hand and bats it aside. His voice feels so useless, so cracked and dry. It’s a wonder he speaks at all but he steels it anyway. “Others?”

“The universe is infinite, Bodt.” Marco blinks and the reflection is back in his seat, as if he never moved. “In fact, think of it as a large crystal. You know Annika, right? The crystal witch?” A surge of emotion comes with the mention of Annie’s name, thousands of different Annies with thousands of different feelings swirling in Marco’s skull before he settles on the one he grew up with. His Annie. The one who collects rocks and minerals and had shelves of crystals in her room.

“Maybe not that metaphor… Think of it as a tree,” the reflection continues.  “Yes. The tree metaphor should do. That one has been  _popular_  lately. This is just one branch. Beyond this world and what you know are infinite other branches. Many of those branches have their very own Marco Bodt.” He hums for a moment. “And a good half of the time, he dies. Among other constants.  _You’re_  one of the special ones.”

The words feel like cotton, slurring in his head but not registering. The thoughts and memories shoved into his skull don’t fit. They aren’t his, but they are, but they  _aren’t._  “I want to go home. I don’t want this.”

“You get to go back. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” The reflection waves him off without acknowledging the way Marco suddenly sits up with hope in his eyes. “I’m just explaining how things are now. I’ve been trying to for a while. You don’t understand how hard it is to manifest on your world.”

“You seem to do it just fine in my mirror,” Marco spits.

“Oh? Is that what you see me as?” The reflection hums. “Interesting. Your grandmother saw me as her deceased childhood friend Abigail.” He sounds so amused at Marco’s frustration. Marco, terror and queasiness and shaking muscles aside, wants to leave his seat and strangle him.

Some of this anger seems to bleed into him with a whisper, and that just adds another level of uneasy wariness of this entire situation.

The reflection seems to revel in this. Marco hates him for it. He’s no friend. He’s a monster.

_Monster monster monster monster monster monster monster._

“I suppose it  _is_  relative. Frieda saw me as one of the maids the day I brought her back.” The reflection ignores Marco’s turmoil again to shrug, staring off into the surrounding darkness. For a moment he looks sad but it’s gone as soon as it appears. Marco growls at the mention of Frieda’s name. Her words from earlier in the month ring in his skull.

“Frieda said she was dead.”

“She was. The wolf that bit her ripped her throat open.” The reflection glares at Marco, clenching his fist on top of the table that shouldn’t exist but does. “I brought her back.”

“Why?”

“Personal reasons. She isn’t the first one. She won’t be the last, either. Especially since you’re finally stepping up to take the job.”

“I don’t  _want_ the job. I don’t want  _this_ , whatever it is.” Marco gestures to the both of them. All he wants is to go home. He wants to make sure Jean is okay. He wants to see Eren. He wants to curl up in his pathetic excuse for a studio under his comfy quilts while Eren clings to him and mutters in his sleep. He wants to sit down for dinner with the makeshift family he’s formed over the years. He wants to see his mother and father and siblings and make sure they don’t have to cry over him a second time.

“Too bad. You’re getting it anyway. That’s what you’ve been trained for,” the reflection snaps. “What did you think your grandmother was teaching you all those years?”

“How to be a priest,” Marco hisses right back.

The reflection leans forward, baring his too many teeth. “Idiot. You are  _no_  priest.”

“I think ultimately that’s my choice, not yours.” Marco glares with all the anger he can muster, through the sweat drying on his skin and the soreness settling into his muscles from all the shaking.

The reflection regards him with no fear, no intimidation. He looks at Marco as if he’s a stupid child.

“Call yourself what you want. Priest. Lich. Your grandmother called herself a Gatekeeper. Either way, you take the job whether you want it or not.”

“N—” Marco can’t finish his refusal for the hands on his throat. There was no movement from the reflection. Just the sudden presence of strong fingers gripping Marco’s windpipe.

“Stop being a  _child_.” The reflection’s voice drops lower. Lower into a growl, into a rumbling that shakes Marco’s bones and fills his heart with the urge to flee, flee far away from this monster before he’s thrown back into the darkness forever. “I brought you back from the abyss. I gave you my eyes. Your job is to just  _watch_  and make sure everything doesn’t go to hell in a hand basket. Even an utter  _imbecile_  like you can do that.”

Marco pries his fingers away, coughing and glaring at the face too similar but too different to his own. “Is that what you do? Bring them back and make them work for you? Is this what Frieda does?”

“Frieda isn’t involved.” The reflection hisses. “And if you bring her into it, I swear I will  _skin you alive_.”

“Why? She’s dead like me, right?” Marco knows he shouldn’t get cocky with that hand still on his throat, but the way the reflection reacts lets him know he’s hitting  _something_.

“Idiot. Stupid little—” the reflection mutters, curling his lip in disgust as Marco stares him in the eye with false bravado. The reflection clenches his fingers just a bit tighter around Marco’s throat. “Your not-so-little friend Hoover set off something I’ve been trying to prevent tonight.”

Marco’s bravado shrivels at that. Bertholdt. The news about Bertholdt—the emergency Erwin called him for. He never got to tell Jean, he never got to find out if everyone was okay—

“It all started with _Jaeger_ , the twit,” the reflection rants. “They tried this ten years ago and I cut them off, but now they’re doing it again and I can’t  _manifest_ —”

“ _Who_? What does this have to do with Eren?” Marco croaks out, prying fingers away once again with less success.

Everything trembles.

The darkness they’ve occupied shifts, everything tumbles around them as the chairs and table that shouldn’t exist vanish into nothingness, and dizziness overtakes Marco’s form. Everything is moving and tumbling over and over but they aren’t  _moving_.

“ _Shit_. My time is up,” the reflection hisses. “You little brat, your arguing took it all up—”

“ _What_ does this have to do with _Eren_?” Marco questions again.

The reflection sighs and releases Marco, stepping back. His shape becomes fuzzy, fizzling out before reforming again and again and again. Marco blinks and for just a moment different faces swim in front of him. A man. A woman. A little girl. An elderly gentleman. A boy in posh clothes.

“Time’s up, Bodt. Find Ilse. She actually _listened_  to me and can fill you in.”

“Wait—” Marco lurches forward but he doesn’t seem to move. The reflection fades out more and more. “I need to know! What does—?”

“Try not to muck things up too much. Your grandmother left a large legacy to fill.” The reflection salutes before he fades away completely, leaving Marco to plummet into nothingness with just a whisper echoing in his ear.

“It takes a lot to gain approval from Death himself.”

 

 

On October 31st, 1920, Marco Bodt dies for a second time.

He wakes up a few hours later with one eye glowing a radiant gold, and his scream joins the howls of hunting wolves as his brain tries to make sense of the fact he is no longer a simple human being.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #25: This is not the first time I have written Death himself into a fic, but this IS his only planned appearance unless I have no other choice. In this world he lives on the outside of perception, barred from reality to watch as the distant force of nature he actually is. 
> 
> COMMENTS are desired as they let me know what you think, as are trips to the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) and my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn)
> 
> Today's inspiration track on the [OFFICIAL PLAYLIST](http://8tracks.com/shingekicorn/bootleggers-the-long-halloween#smart_id=dj:16460790) is ECHO, so check that out.


	26. The Long Halloween: 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~In these coming years  
> Many things will change  
> But the way I feel  
> Will remain the same
> 
> Lay us down  
> We're in love~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The end. After this the Bootleggers universe as a whole changes and the simple slice-of-life attitude won't be the same. I'd like to thank all those who supported me, my editor for kicking my ass into being productive and editing these chapters even when swamped with homework, my therapist for actually telling me to get off my lazy ass and write fanfiction, and all the screaming commentors who motivated me to continue so they would keep screaming.

 

 

Eren remembers the day Mike first took him to the local wolf community.

He hated it.

But then again, he hated a lot of things. He hated other people. He hated wolves. He hated himself. It was a problem Mike saw was holding him back and despite Eren’s reluctance, he took Eren along on an annual camping retreat designed to teach pups about themselves and help them bond with others outside their packs. At the time, Eren hated it most of all. Now? Now Eren is actually very thankful for those retreats, because at the moment, they’re the only thing keeping him grounded and not sinking his claws into the Carolina family car seats and tearing them to shreds.

It’s a little amazing how a fun night eating tamales with the Carolina family can quickly turn into a traumatic experience.

He’d been listening to Grandpa Carolina tell a story about baby Mina and her cousin Carlos, some story involving radishes and an angry neighbor with a funny face, when the phone rang and Mina’s mother answered before anyone else could get up. Eren hadn’t paid much mind when Mina snatched the phone away. It was a holiday, after all. It was probably another relative calling. Mina had more than enough family who still lived in Mexico.

He was wrong. He was so very wrong.

“Oi. If you tear up this car, I’m using your fur as my new upholstery,” Mina snaps. She still has colorful skulls on her cheeks from her younger cousins testing paint, one skull half rubbed away and smeared on the back of her hand. Her cap sits crooked on her head and she blows away loose pigtail strands every few seconds from her face. She frowns and presses the gas pedal harder, taking her frustration out on the road.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Mina mutters. “I swear. Four years younger than you and twice as mature.”

“ _Mina_ ,” Eren growls. The dull yellow of a streetlamp passes them by, sliding over their faces and momentarily giving the dark insides of the car light. Mina doesn’t reply but grips the steering wheel just a bit tighter.

“…do you think Bertholdt will be all right?” Mina’s voice is small. Eren is so used to her being loud, to Mina yelling when she wants to be heard through the sounds of engines and boisterous men. “How bad is…? Do you remember?”

Eren stares ahead. They pass a group off to a late night Halloween party, rubber masks donned and laughs filtering in through the glass. He keeps his eyes on the road and not the faux fur ears sticking up on one of the masks. “Not really.”

“Nothing?”

“I remember being in pain.” Eren clenches his hands, feeling the tips sharpen and breathing deeply before they evolve into claws. The words from the retreats echo in his head, lessons surrounded by others like him who lost control when they felt too much all at once.

_Focus. Focus on the feeling, allow it out, and let it be heard. Don’t let it control you without your consent._

Mina sighs and adjusts her grip on the steering wheel.

“Do you know what to do?”

Eren blinks.

He thinks back, back years and years to sitting in Mike’s cabin, listening to Nanaba read from a tattered book with a paw print on the cover and point out notes. He thinks back to meeting new people at the retreats who sported fresh bites. He thinks back to his father, crushing the surging anger at the memory of his face, talking about painkillers and patients and how a single mistake could cause disasters.

“Yeah. I know what to do. It just ain’t pretty.”

 

 

Things are apparently  _very_  serious, because when Mina parks the car, Levi is waiting on the porch as a line of defense. He’s by the car before Eren is even done taking off his seatbelt.

Eren blinks in surprise when he gets a good look. Levi isn’t even bothering with a robe, choosing to walk around in his nightclothes and a shotgun in one hand. Everyone in the house knows Levi only ever leaves his room if he’s covered up to his neck. Mina averts her eyes and quickly walks to the front door while Eren falls into even steps as Levi talks.

“Hoover and his team aren’t back yet. Protests from those fuck-heads in white are clogging up traffic.”

“Are we the first ones?” Eren holds open the door so Levi can step inside, blinking at the lights after being trapped in the dark for so long.

In this light, he can see Levi’s skin clearly. The sleeveless shirt he’s wearing means the burns along his arms are fully visible. Eren briefly remembers the last time Levi walked around bare like this was the time Eren got into a fight with those coyotes in the woods.

“No. Braus and Springer dropped everything and got back ages ago. Armin got back ten minutes ago and ran off to get books.” Levi gestures to the sitting room, where Sasha and Hanji are going over a large emergency kit and counting supplies. “Mikasa never left so we have her and Ymir listening for incoming cars.”

“Where’s Marco? He always stays in.” Eren doesn’t smell him anywhere in the house, hairs rising on the back of his neck with the realization. The primal part of his brain howls to keep his promised safe inside the house, far away from the danger. Eren shuts it away and focuses on what Levi’s saying instead.

“He left with  the Reiss girl for some shit. Went to see Lenz. We have him swinging back to pick up Kirschstein.” Levi looks to the grandfather clock in the hall, throat bobbing when he notices the time. Eren averts his eyes when the jagged scar around Levi’s neck moves, too. “They should have been back by now.”

Petra stomps down the stairs holding a laundry basket filled with towels, sighing in relief when she sees Eren.

“Oh, thank  _god_. It took five tries to reach Mike and the protests are blocking the wolves from leaving unless they cut through the woods.” She sets the basket down on a spare chair and grips Eren’s hand before leveling eyes with Levi. “I’m taking him now.”

“Go ahead.” Levi nods and turns for the door again, propping the shotgun on his shoulder as he wrenches the door open. Eren frowns at the tension in Levi’s muscles but allows Petra to tug him into the sitting room.

From there, Eren takes charge.

“Okay, I want all the furniture moved back to the walls. Leave the center of the floor clear. Move the rug too. It ain’t gonna survive against this and we can cover up the floor damage with it.” Petra nods and gets to work.

With a wave of her hand, the chairs and tables all begin to scoot themselves backwards. Connie rolls up the rug the second the tables are clear, hefting it under one arm and dragging it toward the wall.

“Eren, we got a bunch of stuff for injuries,” Sasha pipes up from the corner.

“Put away the bandages. They’ll be useless until everything settles. Get disinfectant instead, and—” Eren glances toward the basket of towels in the hall. “Shit. Get some sheets. Spread a sheet on the floor. We can afford to lose one.”

“On it.” Hanji salutes and rolls up their sleeves, pulling out bottles and arranging them in a neat line. Sasha holds up a bag of her own and pulls out jars filled with leaves and creams.

“Witch brews okay?”

“Incoming car!” Ymir’s voice echoes down the stairs, startling everyone and making Eren cover his ears before they begin to ring. “Reiner’s jalopy!”

“Shit!” Eren curses. “Do we have any syringes?”

“In what sizes?” Hanji holds up a case and gently shakes it to hear the metal and glass inside jiggle around.

The door is thrown open before he can answer, and Erwin awkwardly walks backwards cradling Bertholdt’s bloody torso. Reiner brings up the rear with his feet and Annie limps in with a scowl and holding her arm to her chest.

“I met them in the yard,” Erwin explains. “The inside of that car is ruined.”

Eren curses and rubs at his eyes. “Set him down on the sheet.” He cocks his head towards the sheet Petra is smoothing out on the floor. Erwin nods and obeys, guiding the larger boy toward the designated spot while Eren surveys the damage.

It’s most definitely a wolf attack, all right.

Eren feels a sick wave of familiarity looking over the injuries on the larger boy. There’s a large scratch on his chest coating his egg yolk colored sweater in blood. There’s a nasty gash over his eye that mirrors Eren’s own in a way and his gut rolls with the possibility of having to sew that shut. Several more scratches go up and down his arms—defensive wounds are Eren’s guess—and the bite itself is… Oh, lord.

Both sides of Bertholdt’s neck are a mess. One with the indention of claws and the other a savage display of a bite.

“Neck bite. This is gonna be a close one,” Eren mutters. He rolls up his sleeves and kneels down, checking that Bertholdt still has a heartbeat and noting the depth of the scratches on his skin.

“Is he gonna  _live_  is all I’m concerned about,” Reiner hisses.

“He will if we’re careful.” Eren cringes at the blood coming from Bertholdt’s neck. He needs a closer look at that to make sure he won’t bleed out. He knows neck bites have a high mortality rate but telling Reiner that won’t help anything. “What happened?”

 “We were running errands,” Annie explains. She’s sitting propped up next to Sasha, holding her arm out while the witch dabs her cuts with a pasty green substance that smells faintly of mint. “Picked up some crystals for me, some candy for the house…” She pauses, looking to the floor. “Then the tire blew out.”

“Bert and I got out to change it and got tackled.” Reiner wipes some blood from his hands off on his shirt. Eren can’t see any bites on Reiner, but the bruising on his knuckles needs to be looked at. “It was planned. They surrounded us and just… They just fuckin’  _vanished_  when one of ‘em finally got a bite in.”

Eren sighs. Mike is definitely going to want to hear about this.

“Can you give me a time estimate?”

“No. Sorry.” Reiner shakes his head.

Eren breathes. He thinks about the situation and all the factors.

“…okay. Okay. We need to work fast.” He claps his hands together and situates himself by Bertholdt’s body. “I need scissors. The clothes need to go.” Reiner makes a face and Eren glares. “Get a  _towel_  if you’re so damn concerned for modesty!”

Sasha tosses over a pair of sewing scissors and Eren snatches them up, tearing into Bertholdt’s sweater. The larger boy groans and tosses his head from side to side. His muscles twitch and he hisses in pain before settling down again.

Eren feels his skin once the sweater and undershirt is off and frowns before moving to the pants. “We need a shot of painkillers in him. It’s gonna be rough and keeping him lucid won’t help.”

“For  _his_  size?” Hanji preps a syringe and shivers. “Boy’s gonna be on the moon soon enough with this much morphine.”

“Good.” Eren nods. Another pair of scissors lands by Reiner and the changeling reluctantly picks them up to help. “Erwin!”

“Yes?” The blond ceases helping Petra mop up blood droplets from the floor.

“Do we got a muzzle anywhere?”

“I  _think_ so,” he replies, confused. “We bought one for you as a joke once.”

“Grab it. The second his jaw is done reshaping we need to keep it shut.” Reiner finishes tugging off the last of the clothes and quickly drapes a towel down, ignoring Eren’s sigh and moving to remove Bertholdt’s shoes and socks. Erwin runs off to find the muzzle and Hanji scoots over with the painkillers, jabbing them into the nearest arm and making Bertholdt arch his back and whimper.

Sweat is beginning to form on his skin and the fever increases. Eren pries one eye open and frowns at its dilation levels.

Bertholdt whimpers again and Eren releases his eye to sit back on his heels. This takes him back to lying on his kitchen floor, to begging his mother to  _please move_  and  _help end the pain_ — Eren blinks it away as soon as it appears. This isn’t the time for his own memories. He has a job to do.

He isn’t going to allow Bertholdt to suffer alone like he did.

“Okay. We need something to tie his limbs together. If he starts movin’ after he changes, he’ll make it worse.” Connie nods and darts out of the room. The back door slams a moment later and through the window his lithe figure can be seen darting for the barn. “Any news on Mike?”

“Still nothing,” Hanji answers.

“Dammit,” Eren curses. Bertholdt shifts his legs again, swallowing around nothing as his muscles clench and tremble. “Get some hot water. We need to mop up the blood and disinfect his cuts.”

“Already on it,” Mikasa cuts in, making herself known by butting through the crowd in the entryway. In her hands is a large bowl of steaming water with several rags draped over the side. “Ymir is keeping an eye out for more cars.”

Eren thanks her and quickly takes one of the rags.

“Reiner, hold him down.” Reiner looks unsure, but tenderly places his hands on Bertholdt’s shoulders as Eren leans in close.

Bertholdt screams the second the rag makes contact with his skin. Eren works quickly to wash away the blood through Bertholdt’s thrashing, Reiner closing his eyes as he holds his companion down and tries valiantly not to bruise Bertholdt’s shoulders with his strength.

Eren moves from his throat to his arms, to his chest, to every spare cut he can find. Sasha comes forward with disinfectant and Reiner bites his tongue when Bertholdt howls with pain at the substance being spread.

“The morphine should have made him sleepy. How fast is his metabolism?” Hanji asks.

“Does it look like I keep track of that!?” Reiner snaps.

A  _crack_  breaks their chatter and Eren cringes when everyone takes a step away.

It’s starting.

Werewolf transformations are seamless when done by a wolf that has experience. Eren can shift with no pain and with as much ease as a man slipping on shoes. Mike can change in seconds. They’ve had years of practice to understand how to make the change as seamless as possible.

But a freshly turned werewolf is a nightmare.

For the first time, the bones of a human being, or half-nymph in Bertholdt’s case, are shifting and completely changing themselves. In the community it’s considered a mortal sin to leave someone alone for their first shift. Being alone can mean certain death if the body rejects the transformation.

Eren doesn’t remember much of anything from his first change. But he knows what these sounds are. The first crack was of the taller boy’s hand bending backwards. Bertholdt  _wails_.

Another crack and his elbows suddenly shift position. Crunches follow the movement of his bones as his joints relocate themselves.

Ymir interrupts from upstairs and yells that another car is coming in. It’s Marco. Eren’s heart sings knowing his mates are coming soon and a bit of anxiety he didn’t know was present subsides.

Bertholdt’s leg cracks. The bones bend back, back to an odd position that makes everyone in the room a little sick. On his face, hair begins to sprout in patches. His ears develop a point and Bertholdt shakes his head in pain as they climb higher on his skull.

Bertholdt whimpers and blood seeps from his mouth. His fangs are coming in.

The door slams open and when Eren looks up to ask his partners for help, dread takes over.

Jean and Frieda are holding Marco’s limp form up. There’s blood  _everywhere_. Jean meets Eren’s eyes, and Eren can see how red Jean is, how panicked he is, and Eren can  _feel_  it and all he wants is to soothe it away, but Marco is  _hurt_  and the  _fear_ —

Levi helps them lie Marco down on a towel and he snaps at Eren to get back to work.

“He’ll be fine! Worry about Hoover!”

Eren doesn’t want to. He wants to make sure Marco is okay. That’s his  _mate_. His  _promised_.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault I didn’t—” Jean is babbling and Eren can barely focus on the words. Christa is behind them all with blood all over her dress and apprehension in her eyes.

Marco is too still. Why isn’t he moving?

“Eren!” Levi snaps. Eren shakes his head and looks back down to Bertholdt. His eyes dart to Marco every few seconds and his chest tightens when Levi wrenches away the makeshift bandage around Marco’s skull to inspect the damage.

“What the  _fuck_  happened to his eye?”

Bertholdt’s back arches again as his other arm begins to catch up to the change. One hand curls and claws emerge, bloody and sharp. The sheet below his body is shredded as his hands grapple for anything they can hold on to.

Reiner scoots closer and takes one of them. He holds in a howl of pain of his own when the claws sink directly into the tender flesh of his hand.

The first transformations are the slowest and it’s both a blessing and a curse.  Eren wishes no pain for his friend but with Marco on the floor he wishes things would hurry along. Petra herds people away from Bertholdt’s spot on the floor as he rolls onto his side, followed quickly by the rapid popping sound of his spine realigning itself.

His free hand sinks into the wood of the floor as a scream of agony racks his frame. More hair slowly sprouts along his arms and legs.

He coughs and spatters Reiner with blood. The changeling only grips his hand tighter before Bertholdt’s fingers retract and his hand begins taking a paw shape.

Behind Reiner, Levi and Christa are tending to Marco with fervor. Eren sees the bowl of water become darker and darker with blood and it becomes that much harder to focus on his own work.

Everything moves so slowly but so quick.

Bertholdt begins to thrash. The shifting of his body and the movement of his jerks tears open his cuts and blood spills onto the sheet below. It stains Eren’s hands as he works. Bertholdt’s hands resemble paws a bit more every second and his legs are catching up. His screams turn to snarls as his skull reshapes and his snout becomes prominent.

Reiner is forced to let go completely when Bertholdt snaps his jaws toward Reiner’s hand.

“Muzzle! We need the muzzle!” Eren calls. He doesn’t know when Connie returned but the smaller boy tosses a bundle of hemp rope to Eren’s feet for Bertholdt’s limbs.

Stomping sounds down the stairs and soon Erwin reappears holding the promised muzzle aloft. He trips trying to dash into the room without hitting anyone and the muzzle flies before sliding across the floor.

Eren avoids the snap of Bertholdt’s jaw and scrambles to pick up the muzzle before the night gets any worse.

The next few moments of the night drag themselves out in a way that seems unreal.

The lights of the house blink on and off, on and off, and on and off before one by one the light bulbs explode and send glass flying. A few terrified squeals sound off but they’re masked by Marco making his first noise of the evening.

Marco screams. It’s a guttural scream. An  _unnatural_  scream. A scream that sounds like hundreds of voices layered on top of one another as the Creole boy’s hands shoot up to cradle his eye and he arches off the floor. Frieda grabs Levi before he can touch the boy and holds him back. In the new darkness of the room where the Halloween moon is the only light, a glow seemingly escapes from between his fingers.

Bertholdt’s transformation finishes and a primal howl rips itself from his throat before choking off and the newly changed wolf collapses into shakes and jerks before going still.

Reiner shakes Bertholdt and looks to Eren in panic.

Eren, torn between running to Marco and screaming himself, is at a loss.

“He isn’t going to make it,” Eren utters in disbelief. He scrambles closer, gripping Bertholdt’s head and pressing his fingers down to find a pulse. “No, no,  _no no_ — Bert, come on, don’t do this—”

“Eren—” a voice to the side calls. Eren shakes his head and focuses on trying to coax signs of life from his friend. He’s failed his mate already. He’s failed both of them because he can hear Jean hyperventilating and Marco may be _dying_ , and he  _won’t fail someone he grew up with dammit_ —

“Come on, Bert. Come on, you’re strong. You’ve got this. You need to wake up—”

“Eren!”

Brown hands clamp on top of his and Eren startles, looking up to meet Marco’s eyes. The other boy shakes terribly, breathing labored, and Eren bites his lip at the sight before him. The eye coated in blood—swollen and ugly and a horrible reminder that Eren wasn’t there to protect his mate—slowly blinks and Eren startles with the realization it’s no longer brown.

Marco heaves a deep breath and moves his bloody fingers to Bertholdt’s fur. The wolf is still, too still and too silent, and Marco rattles out a raspy, “ _Breathe_.”

His ruined eye shines a bright gold as the wolf on the floor trembles and arches. Then his chest begins to rise and fall once more. Marco slumps forward and his forehand lands on Eren’s shoulder. An exhausted sob escapes, desperate, before Marco buries his hands in Eren’s shirt.

Reiner gently takes the muzzle and slips it on Bertholdt, propping the wolf on his lap and away from Eren. Eren silently thanks him and Reiner nods in understanding.

Eren slips one arm to cradle Marco’s form and signals Sasha and Hanji to come forward with bandages. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before heavy steps come forward and stop in front of him.

Eren opens his eyes as Jean falls to his knees and wraps his arms around all of them for a crushing hug.

Midnight chimes and Halloween ends with the full moon being the only light in the Smith estate. The door opens once more and Mike finally clambers in only to freeze at the sight, looking to Erwin for an explanation and only finding a shrug of shoulders.

The adrenaline of the evening wears off and so much and so little happens. A newly christened werewolf receives treatment and recovers. Sisters who only just reunited that day grasp hands and silently promise to talk.

On the floor, a twice undead Marco embraces his only anchors to sanity, one of which chokes out a final sob before muffling his next words in the fabric of Eren’s shirt.

“What  _happened_  tonight?”

Marco doesn’t know how to answer. Eren barks out a humorless laugh before staring out the window at the moon.

“…I don’t know. No fuckin’ idea.”

The three of them just hold each other tighter. There will be plenty of time to talk in the morning. For now, all they want to do is make sure the other won’t fade away.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#26: Levi gained his scars the night he came to live with Erwin. He lost everything. The rope that had been around his neck still lies in his closet. 
> 
> COMMENTS are extremely welcome to let me know what you all think of the arc, as are visits to the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'll be discussing details that weren't seen in the story and my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I'll be babbling about anything that comes to mind. 
> 
> Today's inspiration track on the [OFFICIAL PLAYLIST](http://8tracks.com/shingekicorn/bootleggers-the-long-halloween#smart_id=dj:16460790) is The End of All Things, which serves as the end credits music for the final scene.


	27. The Aftermath: or: To Hold Your Hands in Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day at a time...such a simple request, one that seems too good to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAUGHS AWKWARDLY I'M SO SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT 
> 
> wow October feels like years ago. The response you all gave was amazing and I'm glad you all liked it. Unfortunately due to schedule slip I'm going to have to do multiple updates a week until Thanksgiving in order to stay on schedule with the holidays (unfortunate for me, for you guys this is a dream come true). 
> 
> This chapter serves as an epilogue to October and serves as a tentative beginning to the next phase of the story. I hope you all enjoy it because at this point you deserve it.

 

 

“I cleared everything. Your parents aren’t going to mention it to anyone and the neighbor won’t either if he knows what’s good for him.” Hitch’s voice sounds odd through the receiver of the phone. She sounds tired, tired but keeping up her voice for business and barely betraying some sort of emotion Jean can’t place. He didn’t see her face when he left her standing on the porch, didn’t see her reaction to what happened, but when he called, she immediately began rattling off information about covering the entire incident up. He doesn’t know if he’s thankful or horrified. “The maids are silenced under threat of being shipped to the Congo. Now all that’s left is covering up the coroner’s report—”

“He’s not dead,” Jean interrupts. He pinches between his eyes, twice as tired and with a raging headache, but he knows he needs to make sure things are settled. He can’t afford to celebrate yet. “He pulled through. He’ll be fine.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s…good.”Jean blinks in surprise at the _relief_ he can genuinely hear. “Good. I’m glad. Now that that’s out of the way…”

“Can we even still do this?” Jean asks. Fear sinks into his bones at the idea of going home. He doesn’t want to walk past Marco’s blood on the sidewalk. He doesn’t want to face his parents after all that happened. “I don’t think I can ever bring you back to the house.”

“We cancel the plan when I  _say_  we cancel the plan, Kirschstein,” Hitch hisses. The emotion from before is gone and Jean sighs with the knowledge nothing really changed for her. “Halloween was a fluke. Flukes happen. But that just means we try again. We’re going to the park in a week. Public date. Lots of hand holding and sharing food. I’ll call you with the details later.”

Hitch hangs up without a goodbye and Jean is left holding the receiver with a frown. He sets it back down and pinches his forehead again, slowly counts to ten, and breathes.

The house feels empty. Even with everyone home, it feels still.

Bertholdt is resting in his room with his limbs still bound. Marco is in Eren’s room after a much needed bath. Everyone else is either exhausted and slowly shuffling like Jean or passed out in their beds. Levi didn’t stop pacing and checking out the window until near two in the morning when Hanji gently pried the shotgun away and whispered something into his ear that made his muscles finally unclench, and he joined the elders of the house in the dining room to go over everything that happened.

Jean can still hear them talking. Going over every detail. Erwin assuring Levi that yes, the bastards in white robes weren’t involved; all they did was clog the roads and make it impossible to get home quickly. Jean doesn’t know why Levi is so focused on those men, but after the incident in Mike’s car, he doesn’t need to think too hard on it.

There are other things to think about anyway.

He pushes away from the hallway phone and sluggishly makes his way to Eren’s room. He passes the stairwell where Mike’s voice drifts up with a request to take Bertholdt to a doctor that treats wolves, passes the list of house rules, and slowly halts in front of the wooden door with chewed corners and kicking dents.

He opens the door to see Marco and Eren curled around each other on the bed. Marco’s face is hidden in Eren’s neck, body curled up in the shorter boy’s lap as his fingers clench tightly in the worn fabric of Eren’s shirt. Eren has his chin tucked into Marco’s hair, idly stroking his back for comfort. Eren’s eyes meet Jeans as he enters and he nods his head in greeting.

A wave of awkwardness washes over Jean at seeing them like this. Well, awkwardness and the urge to curl up with them, but he wouldn’t dare mention that tidbit. This is a moment for them. They’re closer than he’ll ever be. They need this comfort after what happened.

But before Jean can make an excuse to leave, Marco detaches himself from Eren to look over his shoulder. Jean’s breath catches and slowly his feet move forward until he’s dropping onto the bed, worrying his lip as he meets Marco’s eyes and raises one hand to gently cup his cheek.

The eye that had been shot is still there. He doesn’t see a single trace of a wound left. Just an eye that lacks the soft brown Jean had slowly come to love over the summer, replaced with a dark violet and strands of gold that glimmers in the light drifting in through Eren’s window. A cluster of stars have made their home in Marco’s eye as some cruel but beautiful reminder of what happened. Jean’s hand drops from Marco’s face and the lump in his throat swells only to die quickly when Marco separates from Eren and flings his arms around Jean’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Marco whispers. Jean can only go still, stunned, looking to Eren for some kind of clue only for the wolf to look to the bed.

“I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.” Jean shakes his head. His voice chokes on the words, the memory of Marco dropping to the ground all too fresh, and he tries to pry Marco’s arms off only for the Creole boy to grip tighter. “I was useless. I just—”

“You got into the car with Frieda and drove me back here.” Marco lifts his head to meet Jean’s eyes dead on and musters a small but sad smile. “You stuck around. That counts for a lot.”

Jean can feel the well of emotion building in his chest and he tries to desperately clamp it down. He wants to do so much—he wants to hold Marco back and he wants to cry and he just  _wants_ —but he can’t. He can’t do it. Marco has Eren and Eren makes him happy. Eren didn’t get him shot. “I… You got shot because of—”

“I got shot because your neighbor had a gun.” Marco shakes his head. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

“I—”

“Do  _not_  blame yourself.” Marco’s tone becomes sharper and he angles Jean’s head down until their foreheads touch. Jean’s heart stops and he swallows, trying to cover the flush in his cheeks at being this close. “I mean it.”

Jean swallows again, the urge to protest growing stronger but wilting as Marco stares at him with his mismatched eyes. He nods instead and allows Marco to melt against him. Eren scoots closer and rests his head on Marco’s back.

Jean tenses at the contact, breathing deeply before allowing himself to grow comfortable. This is for Marco. He can do this for Marco.

“…are you even okay? After all that?” He strokes Marco’s hair and wraps one arm around his torso, worried at how limp the larger boy is. How pliant he is under Jean’s hands. He doesn’t understand how Marco can feel this relaxed after everything that happened.

“Head hurts,” Marco mumbles. “Like it’s stuffed too full.”

“You need to sleep,” Eren mutters.

“I don’t want to. Not yet.” Marco shivers, fingers clenching tightly before relaxing. “I just… I just want to stay like this for a while.”

“…I can leave you two alone,” Jean offers. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to lose this precious contact. But he knows Marco and Eren have  _something_ and leaving them together to sort it out would be good for them—

“Don’t even,” Eren warns weakly. “Dammit— Why do you always  _run_ —?”

Jean tilts his head in confusion as Marco grips him tighter, rising up to glare at him with what fire is left in his tired form. “I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. You  _always_  do this. You keep turning your head and running away, and that ain’t no way to live—” Marco starts before catching himself and trembling, moving one hand to grip Jean’s collar weakly and drag him forward.

“Marco…?” Jean’s voice comes out as a whisper. Eren watches him tiredly from Marco’s shoulder, giving himself just enough presence to make it clear he’s in support of Marco’s actions.

“When are you gonna get it through your thick skull that we  _want_  you here?” Marco asks. Jean freezes. Eren allows one hand to drift up and wrap itself around Marco’s in Jean’s shirt, gently prying his fingers out of the cotton and letting them twine together. Marco grips Eren back tightly and continues on. “Is that what you really want? For us to toss you out?”

“It’s not—” Jean starts. “I just— You two have a-a  _thing_. And I’m happy for you. Really.” Jean diverts his eyes to the duvet and fails at holding back the blush on his skin. This is it. This is the exact thing he wanted to avoid confronting. Jean wiggles away as the urge to flee, the urge to just run and avoid spilling his guts to this boy who’s already been through so much, grows. “I just—”

Two hands come down on top of his and Jean stops.

Slowly, he raises his head to meet Eren and Marco.

“We want you here,” Marco starts. “We’ve always wanted you here. We care about you, dammit, and…” Marco trembles for a moment, Eren looking to him worriedly before Marco continues on. “And we’re worried about you, too. You always look away and it makes us worry even  _more_.”

Jean allows himself to be pulled closer. Arms are wrapped around him, holding him down as the trembling Jean’s suppressed all morning finally takes hold.

“We care about you, too,” Marco whispers.

“You already have each other—” Jean starts, but is silenced when Eren abruptly turns Jean’s head by the chin and focuses his emerald eyes into Jean’s with fiery intensity.

“Yeah, we do. We got each other. And we want you to join in because we fuckin’ love you, you dumbass.”

The knot that’s been in Jean’s chest all summer snaps.

He knows distantly he’s gaping like a fish, trying to form words and failing horribly, and the trembling in his frame is becoming ridiculous. But above all of that is the hope building inside at Eren’s declaration.

“Let us take care of you. Stop runnin’ away and stop duckin’ your head.” Eren’s grip on his chin loosens and he cups Jean’s jaw gently instead. “You deserve it. We want you. _I_  want you. And I shoulda told you weeks ago so maybe you wouldn’t be this goddamn stupid.”

 With that, he presses a gentle kiss to Jean’s lips. And another. And another. Until Jean relaxes and a sob of relief and frustration tears its way from his throat.

When they separate, Marco sneaks up and gives a peck to the corner of Jean’s lips, burying his head in Jean’s neck as the trembling comes to a stop and the dam inside Jean begins to crack. At later points in his life, Jean will deny crying tears of relief, deny the droplets being wiped away by Marco’s gentle hands as the larger boy presses a tender kiss to his cheek.

“This isn’t right. I’m not the one who got  _shot_. Stop—”

“You’re the one who watched me get my brain splattered on a car, so you deserve this just as much as I do,” Marco cuts Jean off gently. “This isn’t just for you. It’s for all of us.”

A bubble of affection threatens to burst and Jean honestly can’t believe how lucky he is. Things are truly too good to be true. Any moment now he’ll open his eyes and wake up in his room at home. But no, he can feel the heat of the bodies next to him, he can feel their soft grips on him, and the reality of what’s happening is slowly beginning to trickle into his mind.

The reality these two amazing men  _want_ him.

 “…how is this even going to work?” Jean whispers.

“I’ll tell you when we aren’t all about to collapse.” Eren pulls Jean’s head to his chest and props his chin in Jean’s hair, softly smiling down at Marco. “We take it slow for now. We help each other.” He presses a kiss to Jean’s hair that makes the cherry flush on Jean’s cheeks darken even more. “All we gotta do right now is just stay like this.”

“…that’s it?” Jean presses.

“That’s it. One day at a time.”

Jean breathes in. He thinks of his parents waiting at home for him. He thinks of the jacket and bowtie to his suit he tossed away hours before. He thinks of the blood on his clothes that still stinks of copper. He thinks of Hitch waiting to call him. He thinks of the homework waiting for classes he never wanted to take. He thinks of all the things he’ll have to face when he leaves this room. He thinks of how many lies he’ll be spilling to maintain a face he doesn’t care for, for people he’ll probably hate.

Then he melts into the comfort of the cuddle pile they’ve formed and nods.

“One day at a time. I can do that.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #27: It takes a few more hours of holding each other and a lot more kisses before Jean really lets it sink in that these boys want him. He and Eren will talk when Marco finally falls asleep. 
> 
> COMMENTS are greatly desired, as are visits to the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'll be throwing out information regarding the worldbuilding behind the fic. (just today there was a discussion on vampires). You can also PERSONALLY MESSAGE ME thanks to tumblrs new IM feature! Also don't forget my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) where I babble nonsense and sometimes throw out ideas.


	28. The Talk: or: Memories Fade but Scars are Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A whisper in the cotton in his head tells him he’s forgetting something important. Marco sits there for another ten minutes trying to figure out what it is. He comes up with nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was GOING to update tomorrow but I'm supposed to be filling out a bio lab workbook and I will do anything to avoid math. Or work. Or college responsibility in general. Projecting my life onto Jean what no how dare you say such a thing-
> 
> Anyway, take this little chapter and enjoy. This updating multiple times a week thing must be elating all of you.

 

 

Marco sleeps a lot.

It doesn’t come as a surprise. By the end of October, the entire house had begun to notice how exhausted Marco looked and the sight of him napping in random rooms brings a shred of relief to everyone that had been present during the Halloween fiasco. Marco wakes up more than once with a blanket draped over him or a pillow lovingly tucked under his head. He sleeps in Eren’s room at night and finds comfort in the way Eren clings and croons him into slumber.

Hanji tells Marco he’s doing the right thing. Something about recovery and how the body heals better when the brain isn’t running at full speed, but it all goes in one ear and out the other. His head is filled with cotton, with disjointed memories and images and information that make no sense but still try to force themselves into the forefront of his mind. He sleeps to make it all go away and wakes to the pounding of his skull as the sheer amount of  _whatever_ it is that refuses to go down easily.

He wakes only a few days after the incident to a note from Eren saying he’s gone to town with Annie for knitting supplies. Why Eren would intrude on Annie’s sacred knitting runs escapes him but he doesn’t really need or want to know. Eren’s coddling is steadily growing in intensity and while Marco is grateful for the care, he’s also very thankful to gain some time to himself. Waking up to Eren plastered against his side is pleasant but breathing room is much more appreciated.

With Jean at school and nearly everyone else actually doing their jobs, this means for once…he’s alone.

He stumbles down to the kitchen when the emptiness of his stomach hits him like a sack of bricks. With all the sleeping he’s done, Marco honestly can’t say he remembers the last time he ate. He blinks at the clock as he pads downstairs, breathing in the leftover scents from breakfast and taking in everything around him. His eye can still see. There isn’t any discoloration and there aren’t any signs of a blind spot.

He grabs an apple and bites into it as he alternates looking out each eye. He stares out of one and shuts the other before switching, trying to find some kind of difference. He catches his own reflection in a pan hanging on the wall and sighs. He doesn’t know how he’s going to explain this. If he goes out in public with this eye exposed, he’s likely to be labeled a merlin. His mother will have a heart attack.

Marco bites into the apple again and pauses his chewing when he sees something else in the reflection of the pan.

He turns and sees Frieda out the window, relaxing on the porch and looking out into the trees that surround the property. A flash of Halloween returns, memories of driving Frieda out and meeting Christa and finding out  _Christa isn’t Christa at all_ and a deep voice telling him to  _leave Frieda out of it_ —

He’s on the porch before he knows it and Frieda doesn’t even look shocked to see him.

Marco doesn’t really know where to begin. So he starts with a simple “Where’s Christa?”

“With Ymir,” Frieda answers. Her expression stays relaxed and she leans back in her seat, enjoying the cooled air of early November. “I met her yesterday. A bit rough, but she has a good heart. I like her.”

“…you know they’re…” Marco begins.

“I know. Historia told me. I’m happy that she has someone to love her that way.” Frieda smiles. It’s an honest smile. A smile that reaches her eyes. She gestures to the chair across from her and Marco slowly pads over to settle into the whicker and cushions. “Lord knows in this cruel world she deserves every bit of happiness that comes her way.”

Marco nods just to give her a response.

They’re silent for a moment. Frieda’s smile falters and she folds her hands over her lap. “…you know, I didn’t mean to unsettle you. In October.”

Marco looks up.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up then. But thanks to Halloween, I think things need to be discussed.” Frieda tucks a bit of hair behind her ear, pausing to run a fingertip along the scratches on her face. “Your eye healed nicely, by the way. It looks very pretty. Like stars in space.”

“It doesn’t look natural,” Marco mutters.

“Eye patches go a long way,” Frieda supplies. “I wore a headscarf for months after I died. Covered every inch. Looked more like a grieving widow than a sixteen year old girl.”

Marco tenses at the mention of dying. For a moment, he feels those cold hands on him again and that deep voice taunting him from the edges of his mind.

“This stage will pass, you know.” Frieda pats him on the shoulder and Marco can’t help but stare at her hand. The bite marks embedded in her skin run deep and ugly up close, but underneath remains a delicate touch. “You feel wrong inside, right? Like you don’t belong? Like you’re a monster who doesn’t fit?”

Marco’s hands clench. Memories of himself at fifteen desperately pushing away others surface and the  _guilt_  that came afterward begins wrapping itself around his heart again.

“It’s part of coming back. You feel like you don’t belong anymore because you  _know_  you passed on.” Frieda retracts her hand from Marco’s shoulder and leans back into her seat. Her eyes stare into the distance in a way that tells she’s drifting into her own mind as well. “It lasted quite a while for me. I think being a newly turned wolf just made it all worse.”

“And you got better?” Marco asks quietly.

“With time.” Frieda nods. “I allowed myself to welcome others in. What happened wasn’t a curse, or a punishment.” She stops to feel the scars on her neck, giving Marco the urge to rub the skin around his eye. “It was a second chance. You’ll probably do just fine now. Your friend, though…”

Marco cringes as Frieda trails off. He doesn’t know if Bertholdt saw any of the things he saw, and Marco doesn’t know how to go about asking. He gives a side glance to Frieda before clearing his throat.

“By the way— What did you see? When you died? Did you…talk to anyone?”

Frieda chews her lip. “I mostly remember having my hair stroked. Being told I was going to be okay. That I was going to do amazing things one day. Actual death was…cold. So cold. I don’t know how long I stayed under but when I woke up, the last of my siblings were gone and I was alone.”

Marco frowns and stares down at the boards of the porch.

“Trust me. Give it time. This stage will pass and the memories will settle,” Frieda soothes. She stands, stretching her arms above her head before patting Marco’s shoulder and heading for the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to Mr. Smith about forging some identity papers.”

Marco bids her goodbye, spirits still low but considerably higher than they had been when he woke up. He looks down to the apple in his hand and tosses it into the grass. His appetite isn’t very ravenous anymore.

Frieda pauses with her hand on the door, suddenly looking back.

“Wait… There is one thing.” Marco sits up and blinks at her. Frieda grips the handle on the door tighter as she thinks back and continues. “There was a phrase I repeated for weeks after… Uncle said I would mumble it in my sleep, even.”

Marco’s mouth goes dry. “…what was it?”

Frieda thinks for a moment, mumbling to herself before saying it louder. “Something like…seven nights, seven moons…”

_Seven gates seven tombs_ , Marco’s mind finishes.

“I haven’t the faintest clue what it meant. But I hope it helps.”

Marco dumbly nods. “…yeah. Yeah, it did a little. Thanks.”

Frieda steps inside and leaves him alone on the porch. The phrase repeats itself in Marco’s head until it morphs, changes into his grandmother’s voice softly whispering it into his ears. Marco suddenly feels cold. He wants to crawl back into Eren’s bed. A whisper in the cotton in his head tells him he’s forgetting something  _important_.

Marco sits there for another ten minutes trying to figure out what it is. He comes up with nothing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #28: Marco's eye shines like a cluster of stars, and it does indeed hold their own world that we humans cannot begin to understand. 
> 
> COMMENTS are eagerly wanted as are lil old trips to the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'll be hanging around and open for everyone. You can also PERSONALLY MESSAGE ME on tumblr IM! I'm serious do it. Dooo it. I crave company. My [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) is also open and full of babblings.


	29. The Ex: or: The Wise Crystal Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren was easily the best boyfriend Annie ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who's been on the writing blog has seen me babble a few times about how cute Eren and Annie are together. I ended up giving people feels over these two and they aren't even together anymore. Oh well-
> 
> I have a few more updates to somehow shove in here before Thanksgiving, then after that it's nothing but Christmas chapters. Which I am equal parts pumped for and dreading because the Christmas season sucks out my ability to write like some kind of supernatural leech. But maybe it won't be so bad since my editor is gonna drive down from Penn. and we'll be meeting each other IN PERSON for the very first time! WOOO
> 
> BOOTLEGGERS BONUS CORNER: 
> 
> ['Coming Back'](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/post/133553955968/coming-back-a-bootleggers-extra-another-extra), an extra about Eren and his issues when he first came to the house.

 

 

 

Eren was easily the best boyfriend Annie ever had.

To others, it wouldn’t be saying much. Annie isn’t much of a people person. She almost never dates. Boys find her off-putting and too aggressive. Too cold. Too  _creepy_. Annie knows that from her small reference pool it never seems like much when she describes Eren as the best of them all. It sounds pathetic, actually. She and Eren weren’t together for a particularly long time. They weren’t overly serious.

But when Annie describes Eren as the best boyfriend she ever had, she leaves out an unspoken declaration she knows he is probably the best she ever  _will_ have.

It’s just extremely hard to find someone who  _gets_  her the way he does.

Eren carries grief in his soul, a burden on his shoulders that weighs him down and keeps him separated from others. Eren carries a weight too similar to hers and somehow it helps her feel okay. Or, as close to okay as she’ll ever be. Many of their days as a couple were spent discussing the things that formed the chains to their ankles. Eren spoke of  _that_ day, of the day he begged his cold mother to get up and how his sister had to be the one to find him soaking in a pool of his own blood. He spoke of the three years where adults wanted him dead and the slightest emotional reaction made him change. He spoke of being afraid to hold his sister’s hand or to allow his closest friend to give him a hug.

Annie spoke of fire. She spoke of fire and jeering voices and the ratty, flimsy bag she carried in thin arms as her home and everything she loved fell to people who allowed their fear to overcome human decency. She spoke of dreams that were filled with screams and visions of fates that were too cruel for a little girl to bear witness to.

They had a mutual understanding. The talks were never meant to reach other ears. Their words were for them alone and there was a beautiful comfort to be found in a kindred spirit.

Annie doesn’t admit she could have easily loved him. Hell, maybe she did. She’s never been very good at recognizing these things. She didn’t realize she considered Erwin family until she was fifteen and a woman called her his daughter and Annie didn’t feel the need to correct her.

Whether or not Annie had been in love with Eren, she thinks of their time together fondly. Their discussions helped her feel better in ways she couldn’t predict…and if she can be completely honest, Eren was  _great_  in bed. That was an incredible bonus. Eren was attentive, empathic, understanding, a bit coddling with his constant need to snuggle her and his nickname habit, but the discomfort from that wore off quickly and she accepted it came with his larger than life personality.

She accepted a lot of things.

Ultimately, it was why they broke up. There was a lot more to it than that, reasons known only to Annie since she was the one who requested the split, but getting those reasons from her is a futile effort.

She got to keep Eren as a friend, and really, that was all she could ask for.

Even _if_  he’s an annoying little shit sometimes who interrupts her private project time for his boyfriend trouble.

“…Annie… Annie, baby… Baby bird… Sweetheart…”

She knows what he’s doing. He only ever uses the nicknames if he needs something. He’s a horrible whiner when he needs favors and he genuinely has the energy to sit there for hours until she caves. Annie sighs and turns around from her comfortable position on her bed, setting down the blanket she’s spent weeks attempting to finish with an irate finality. Her self-knitting needles continue to clack on without her but she knows she needs to keep an eye on them before they miss a stitch and continue on without a care. “What?”

Eren sticks out his bottom lip and holds up the jumble of yarn in his hands. He makes a pathetic whimpering sound, fingers digging into the lopsided creation in his hands, and Annie eventually turns to her needles to give the order, “Take five, guys,” before snatching the abomination of knitting from the wolf.

Eren smiles that dopey smile of his and Annie knows her blanket isn’t getting any more attention until he leaves.

“You are without a doubt the worst knitter I have ever seen,” Annie scolds. The lump in her hands  _appears_  to be some sort of glove. The palm is entirely too big and the thumb could fit three of her fingers in it.

Eren flattens his lips and looks to the side. “That’s why I came to you. If I asked Levi, he would chain me to the wall until I got it right.”

The sad thing is it’s true.

“Sit down. I might be able to salvage this monstrosity.” Annie gestures to the plush seat beside her bed and grabs her needles, examining where she can begin before eying Eren with suspicion. “So, is this a present?”

Eren fidgets in his seat. “Yeah…”

“Hm. Marco might appreciate a nice coat instead.” He could really use an eye patch, but Annie doesn’t want Eren to shove her off her bed while her needles are in her hand. Not that she couldn’t stop him before he reaches her; she just doesn’t want to accidentally stab him. Again. Like last Easter.

“…it’s not for Marco,” Eren mumbles. Annie cocks an eyebrow at him. “It’s for Jean.”

“Ah.” Annie nods. She finally finds a good weak point to undo the mess of stitches holding the glove together and begins unraveling. Eren bobs his leg and watches her work, biting at his lips and making frustrated noises.

“…so you’re not going to say anything?”

“About what?” Annie doesn’t even look at him.

Eren fidgets in his seat again. “You know what. You know everything.”

“ _Erwin_  knows everything,” she corrects. “Would you mind telling me what I supposedly already know?”

Eren growls softly. He squirms in his seat and crosses his legs, staring down at the soft rug and pouting. “It’s about what I’m doing.”

“Knitting badly?” Annie cringes when she comes across a rather horrific stitch. She isn’t sure how a mistake like this could be made without deliberately trying to make it happen. “Being cryptic and unhelpful?”

“I was thinking ‘trying to mate two men,’” Eren mumbles. “It’s a bad idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking you liked two people. It seems simple to me.” Annie’s needles begin their click-clacking rhythm again on the glove, working fast to undo the damage Eren had done. Annie holds the glove steady and watches them for mistakes but keeps her ears out for Eren’s responses.

“Why is no one surprised by this?” Eren throws his hands in the air. “Mike was way too calm about it, Levi isn't sayin' shit and I _know_ he knows, Mikasa isn't throwin' a fit, and now you’re not even making a face!”

“Because I  _know_  you and this isn’t a huge concern. Plus we stopped being surprised by your love life after you slept with Reiner.” Annie does look up then to lock eyes with Eren and makes her most unimpressed face. Eren frowns right back. “He says he still dreams about your ass, by the way.”

“I would hope so. I couldn’t  _walk_ after—” Eren starts, then stops to shake his head and sigh. “That’s beside the point. Absolutely no one is telling me not to do it. Usually when I do stuff like this I get at least five lectures. I mean, Marco I can get away with. I know him. But  _Jean_ …” He trails off, hanging his head and groaning. “Jean’s a goddamn rich boy.”

“So was Erwin, and he got away with staying unmarried and adopting a brood of merlin kids.” Annie shrugs. Eren groans again and lays his face in his hands. Annie feels a tug in her chest, a distant pulse from some of their talks ages ago that’s suddenly becoming relevant again. Eren’s soft voice telling her how taking what he wants is something he’s still learning. She knows this stupid boy and the stupid ways he dooms himself, convinces himself it wasn't worth it anyway, and she doesn't want to hear it today. She doesn't want to hear how much he's like her.  “Eren, you wanna know what I think?”

Eren peeks up at her, eyes wide.

“I think you deserve this. You deserve to be happy. You _are_  happy, right?”

Eren nods.

“Are the other two aware of what you want? Did you tell them about your weird little way of doing things?”

Eren nods again.

“Then you’re fine. Stop being an idiot. If you want me to talk you out of something that makes you happy, you’re literally barking up the wrong tree.”

Eren blinks at her. He bites his lip again, scooting his seat closer to the bed so he can flop his face directly onto Annie’s quilt and reach his arms toward her. His voice is muffled against the cloth but Annie hears him loud and clear. “You’re too sweet to me, baby.”

“I’m paying you back for all the bed stuff. It’s no big deal.” Eren laughs, that soft rich chuckle that still relaxes Annie’s muscles, and he rolls his head to peek one eye at her with a grin.

“ _Please_. Eating you out was just as much fun for me as it was for you.”

Annie uses her leg to shove him to the floor.

“Stop being gross and get me more yarn.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #29: Annie and Eren had their first real bonding moment under the Christmas tree during Eren's first year at the house. They don't talk about it but it meant a lot. 
> 
> COMMENTS are a must, as are ventures to the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'm available 24/7 for hilarious asks or a conversation on tumblr IM. My [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) is readily available and sometimes I ramble about things to come.


	30. The Date: or: The Devil Wears Chanel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graveyards are hallowed ground. One would have to be horribly disrespectful to be claimed by the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hitch is a surprisingly popular character. And in other news today I learned boiled peanuts aren't a thing up north??? Everywhere you go in the south if a place sells peanuts they sell'em boiled too. They're delicious. How do ya'll live without this as an option???

 

 

“Tell me about your boy.”

Jean, a boiled peanut halfway to his mouth, stops to stare down at his faux girlfriend in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Your boy. Your fella. The one you play ‘hide the stick’ with.” Hitch steals a peanut from the bag and presses it to her perfectly done lips, cracking the shell with her teeth before sucking dry the inside and tossing the shell into the paper bag they’ve set up for their trash. The weather is dropping steadily, leaving the park mostly deserted, save for excited schoolchildren taking their last hours of freedom and upper side socialites walking their dogs. It’s just enough exposure, according to Hitch, to keep up appearances. She doesn’t seem to care much for proper conversation in public, though, alternating between making comments on passersby’s choice of clothing and starting on topics that leave Jean a bit uncomfortable.

This is one of them.

“It’s the negro, isn’t it?” Hitch continues. “The one down an eye. He’s kind of cute. Nice arms and all. Not the  _worst_ you could have done.”

“Hitch. Honestly.” Jean’s cheeks burn as he angrily bites down on a peanut shell and coughs when hot juice floods his mouth.

“What? Just curious.” Hitch steals another peanut and shucks it mindlessly, tossing the shell to a pigeon that’s been circling their bench for ten minutes. The pigeon coos in thanks and goes ignored.

“It’s complicated, okay?” Jean looks around for anyone who may be listening, tensing when a grade schooler runs past kicking a ball followed by a crowd of equally dirt stricken children. The odds of these children hearing anything over their play is low but the very thought of being found out leaves Jean just a  _bit_  on edge. When they pass, Hitch laughs.

“Oh? So you’re a one and done man?”

“No! It’s just—” Jean sputters. “I just— We’re just— Shut up. Don’t get into this.”

“I’m going to get into this,” Hitch hums. “I need to know these things if I’m going to cover your ass. How many fellas do I need to keep my eye on?”

Jean sighs. He knows how this game is going to go. Hitch is going to keep coming back to this until she gets what she wants. “Two. Just two. And you don’t need to worry.”

“Just two? Not very adventurous,” Hitch groans. “What, you go bar diving and decide the one with the nice ass is it?”

“…it’s both of them,” Jean mutters.

“Oh. Now  _that’s_  juicy.” Hitch wiggles an eyebrow and Jean feels so very tempted to push her off the bench. “You just foolin’ around or what? Two different sex buddies at once? Threesomes? I want the dirty stuff. ”

Jean frowns and makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a gurgle. “It’s not  _like_  that.”

Hitch blinks at him before laughing. She laughs with an intensity Jean has only ever seen in drunken women at parties, clutching her stomach before whipping back into shape and smiling with a special sort of malice that makes Jean wish he didn’t exist so he wouldn’t be exposed to vile specimens like Hitch Dreyse.

“Oh, I get it. Jeannie’s a virgin.” Jean doesn’t say anything, which gives Hitch all the confirmation she needs. “This is rich. Everyone out there says sodomites are super depraved but here you are pure as a wittle flower.”

“Not all of us are keen on shacking up in cars.”

“Excuse you. I punched that card in a bed with silk sheets.” Hitch slaps his arm in offense, stealing the bag of peanuts for herself as punishment. Jean huffs and merely reaches to put his gloves back on now that the hot bag is no longer there to keep his fingers warm.

He smiles a bit at the gloves as he slips them on. Eren had given them to him just yesterday. They were soft, worn just right to fit his hands without trouble and thick enough to keep the chill out. They still smelled like Eren a bit and the familiar tinge of the werewolf’s soap brightened his mood considerably.

“You’re smiling like a creep _, darling_.” Hitch cuts into his fond memories with a peanut in hand. “What, did your boyfriend get you those?”

“Yes, actually,” Jean shoots back. He regrets it the moment it leaves his mouth when Hitch’s eyes light up. She grabs his hand and holds it close to her face, examining the gloves before releasing him and whistling.

“Very nice. Practical. Gifts like that show you what your man is really like.”

“And what would that be?” Jean rubs his hand and flexes his fingers under the soft wool, holding it close lest Hitch grab him again. Her nails are painfully sharp things.

“Well, for one, he got a woman’s help,” Hitch starts. She shucks another peanut and chews before continuing. “The detailing is too nice for gloves that are obviously handmade.” Jean looks down at the gloves and purses his lips. He hadn’t known they were handmade. When Eren presented them he hadn’t even thought of where they might have come from. “The fact he got help shows he has  _some_ sense. I’ve had too many dates who just grab the flashiest thing they see and think it’ll win me over.”

“I remember you going on a lot of dates last year,” Jean points out.

“Oh, I still took the gifts. I just knew they were idiots.” Hitch waves it off nonchalantly, fiddling with a necklace of pearls around her neck that Jean now recognizes as a gift from Flegel Reeves. He wonders how many times Hitch has gone through this and how many things she’s claimed. “Let’s go. I’m out of peanuts and need to stretch my legs.”

Jean miserably exhales and rises, allowing Hitch to hook their arms together and drag him down the walkway to the park gate. Hitch times their steps to sync and holds her head up high, tilting it to rest lightly against Jean without actually putting her weight on him. He gives her a bit of credit for the display. To outsiders, they look like a perfectly happy couple enjoying a stroll.

“Have your parents said anything? About the fluke?” Hitch’s voice is soft and honeyed. Jean glances at her and realizes she’s intentionally making it look like they’re having a lovey conversation.

“No. We haven’t spoken much at all,” he murmurs back. Going home required being pushed out of Eren’s room with the order to find clean clothes. In the time since the  _incident_ , he and his parents have been walking on incredibly thin ice if they share a room for more than three seconds. He isn’t sure if it’s because they’re cross with him or because they’re just as upset as he is about what happened.

“As long as they don’t talk about it, then everything should be fine. I sent some men of Daddy’s to clean the blood from the sidewalk,” Hitch continues on. “Normally concrete doesn’t give up stains very easy but Daddy’s men are effective when paid well.”

“I noticed,” Jean deadpans. He _did_  notice. He had expected a horrid reminder when he left the house to go to school but the front of his walkway was as pristine as ever. It was jarring. Like he had never watched Marco fall to the ground with a hole in his head. Like Halloween had never happened.

“Don’t be so glum. Everything is fine now. Your boyfriend lived.” Hitch lightly slaps his arm and Jean jolts with the realization he had been grimacing. “One of them, at least. I don’t know how it works with what you have going on.”

“It’s complicated. Stop mentioning it,” Jean hisses as they cross the gate onto the sidewalk. There are more people than expected, bustling up and down the street and bundling themselves in their jackets. Hitch presses herself closer to him and actually does drop the subject.

Jean doesn’t know what to make of it all anyway. Eren had waited for Marco to finally sleep before talking about it, and even then, Jean is still a bit lost on what it all means.

_“I wanna do this right. The final choice is all yours, but I wanna court you nice and proper before I call you mine. You and Marco both.”_

Despite it all, those words warm him up on the inside and Jean smiles a bit. He has his doubts but the memory of Eren’s hands holding his make them all flutter away like butterflies. That and the cookie he found in his pocket after accepting the gloves. It’s no doubt one of Sasha’s but the sloppy wax paper wrapping screams  _Eren_.

He and Hitch walk further before she suddenly stops, holding Jean in place as she ogles a crowd across the street. “Oh my. Something exciting is happening.”

Jean takes a glance at the crowd and hums. Judging from the coats and furs, they’re mostly people from Hitch’s type of social circle. They’re surrounding the gate to one of the cemeteries, chatting and pointing and trying too hard to lean over a line of tape blocking their entrance inside.

Jean isn’t really surprised by this. The protests from Halloween were messy. Even a week later there are still slurs painted on the sides of buildings and signs left leaning against doorways. Frieda kept their car as far away as she could but even then, Jean had seen glimpses of the marching.

He shivers remembering the torches. He doesn’t understand how this country lets those men walk free.

Hitch tugs him along, darting across the road before a car comes their way and pushing aside stragglers so she can squeeze through. Jean sighs and allows her to plow through the crowd to her whim, offering short apologies with every rough push and shove. She cheers when she reaches the front and Jean cringes when he sees what the crowd is staring at.

They can’t see it all from the entrance. The mausoleums stand tall and obscure the rows behind them. But several rows down, just peeking out to give the onlookers a taste, is  _red_.

It’s brown now, what with having time to dry, but Jean knows what it is. It’s splattered on the ground and one of the tombs. Droplets and large splashes alike gleam up at them tauntingly. He swallows down the bile that rises when he thinks to himself  _that’s what his sidewalk should look like_.

“What happened here?” Hitch cranes her head to catch someone’s attention, voicing her question as loudly as she can.

“Someone done got murdered on Halloween,” a man replies from a ways down the crowd.

“I heard it was some kid playin’ around. Blew himself up with fireworks,” a girl to Jean’s left joins in.

“Naw, it was the clan! They were _lookin’_  to string someone up.” A kid Jean hadn’t noticed before worms his way to the front, joining in before getting shoved back by the taller people around him.

“If it was the clan, they’d have strung ‘em up in the street, stupid!”

Jean feels the crowd part again and a girl comes through. He looks down at her and instead of the intrigue and excitement present on everyone else’s face, he finds a pinched brow. Her expression is horribly stern. She’s clad in trousers and a heavy coat, which seeing a girl in clothes like that would be stranger if Jean hadn’t seen Nanaba wear the same thing all summer long, and she doesn’t spare the crowd any attention before taking a notebook out of her pocket and marking something down in a messy scrawl.

“This wasn’t the clan,” she mutters.

Jean feels Hitch move again, leaning over the tape a bit too far in her zealousness to see everything. He gently tugs her back and hears the girl speak again.

“It was a fool who doesn’t know what he’s playing with.”

Jean makes sure Hitch is upright before turning to get a better look at the other girl. The girl tucks her short hair behind one ear and barely acknowledges him with a single glance before whirling around to leave. She vanishes into the crowd all too easily and Jean feels the tug of Hitch’s hand on his arm again.

As his fake girlfriend urges him to lift her up so she can see, Jean frowns.

That girl had a face that looked a lot like Marco’s.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #30: Hitch has swindled at least twenty boys out of their precious gifts. She milks them for all they have before turning them down. 
> 
> COMMENTS are wonderful and motivate me to work through the slow holiday season, as are trips to my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'm constantly posting extra material and available for chats on tumblrs IM service. My [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) is open and always going on about writing progress and little ideas.


	31. The Past: or: 1910, The Year of Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 31st, 1910. This date is a memorial more than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY 
> 
> Tomorrow is the Thanksgiving chapter and hopefully after this I can go back to once a week updates. Unfortunately JEM week falls on the Christmas holiday this year and I...I'm kind of obligated to participate considering how this fic is picking up readership. So. I'm going to be in hell attempting to get all that done on top of the December updates for this fic. 
> 
> All this on top of Miraculous Ladybug finally arriving in the US is gonna be what kills me. Good lord.
> 
> Enjoy this update. Smol dad and Tol dad get to have a nice little chat.

 

 

 

 

Levi knows what being burned alive feels like.

He doubts it’s a feeling he could ever forget. It was seared into the very core of his being in a field outside New Orleans, both his legs broken and his limp body tied to a post soaked in kerosene. It was etched into his soul like the rope digging into his neck. A horrifying wave of heat and sheer pain followed by an icy numbness. It’s a feeling that crawls up Levi’s spine every time he sees himself in the mirror. It’s a feeling that tingles in the scars on his skin whenever he gets dressed in the morning.

It’s a feeling that taps him on the shoulder and begs for attention whenever he sets foot outside.

The men who dragged him from his camp kicking and screaming, the ones who took away the only two people he felt any love for, were cowards behind masks who used their numbers to mimic power. Those masks gave them the courage to do things they would never do face to face.

Those masks mean Levi could pass any one of them on the street and he would never know.

He hates living in the south. If only for shit like this. But from what he hears, the robed bastards are starting to march up north with no resistance, so maybe at this point, he just hates this country. He already feels a genuine hatred in his system every time he passes the signs nailed to storefronts. He doesn’t understand how Erwin can ignore them so easily.

“You seem tense.”

“Fuck off.”

“You can unclench, you know. This is supposed to be a peaceful walk.”

Levi glares at Erwin, who only smirks and continues his leisurely stroll. Under his cloak and suit, Levi feels his scars tingle. His throat itches with the phantom pain of a noose around his neck. More men pass them on the walkway and when they laugh it reminds him too much of the cheering when the flames engulfed his body.

“You’re too calm for a man whose family was attacked.”

“You’re too tense for a man whose family wasn’t touched,” Erwin counters. “Levi, I know Halloween spooked you. But the kids are okay. Please realize that.”

He knows they’re okay. They’re okay and alive and they weren’t hurt. He wishes his head would accept that.

Erwin slows down and stops in front of a dress shop, eyeing the selection on display in the window. Levi halts with him and offers a small glance. Immediately he knows Mikasa wouldn’t want anything from  _this_ shop. He briefly wonders when it was that shopping for the kids became such an easy mindset but the thought is gone as soon as it forms.

“I’ve agreed with Mike to move Bertholdt. He’ll be seeing the doctor the werewolves have. Undergo the treatment they gave Eren.” Erwin tilts his head, a shift of the features betraying the concern he’s trying to hide. Blood or no, these children are  _his_. It had taken a while but Levi knows the feeling coursing through his veins. The call to protect. To destroy whatever threatens the safety of his family. “Do you think Annie would like the blue one? Christmas is coming and all.”

Levi glances at the window again. The blue dress is nice but it has too many frills. Annie hates frills. “No. Get the beige one.”

“Of course.” Erwin nods. He doesn’t enter the shop to purchase and continues to walk. Levi follows. They pass a bakery before he speaks again. “Bertholdt won’t be able to attend the Christmas party. Too much stress. He’s apparently likely to change by accident.”

Levi does remember Mike’s brief coverage of what to expect. He remembers what Eren was like when he first brought him in and realizes Bertholdt will have an infinitely easier time adjusting since they’re acting so soon.

“This entire thing is just  _off_  to me.”

Levi glances at Erwin in question. “What?”

“It’s just a thought. By the way, do you have the fake identification I needed?”

Levi sighs. “Give it another day. Short notice fake papers tend to be shitty and the Reiss girl can’t afford to get caught. If Liesel Lenz is going to exist, then her papers need to look as real as possible.”

“Take all the time you need,” Erwin assures. He holds his head tall and buries his fingers into his pockets, flexing them for warmth after spending so long exposed to the cooling air. Around them, the city bustles on without a care. “I did some digging after she came to me with her request. Personal history. Looked at her sister’s file again.”

Levi is well aware of the Reiss file. He’s read the file more times than he can count. He burned spare copies of that file when Erwin’s adoption of “Christa Lenz” went through. He hated that file and all the trouble it could bring. They already had enough going on without involving themselves in the underside of politics, and Rod Reiss’s slow rise to the top meant this kid could easily cause a scandal the size of the delta.

But, as children tend to do, “Christa” grew on him the same way all the ankle biters did and he found himself caring less as the years passed.

“Do you know the date Rod Reiss’s family died of a ‘home invasion’?” Erwin asks. Levi shakes his head. “March thirty-first, 1910.”

Levi stops walking.

March 31, 1910.

He knows that date.

He knows that date and what it means to the strange little family he’s cobbled together. He knows that mentioning it at all is on record the  _quickest_  way to shut Eren down. He knows his kids have never smiled on that date and spend the day curled up together. He knows Eren’s fourteenth birthday ended with a crying teenager and a declaration of  _Look at me; can’t you see I’m a monster?_

March 31, 1910, was the day Carla Jaeger was murdered and Eren was bitten.

Erwin knows this just as much as Levi does. The taller man has stopped walking as well and stares out into the crowds. He stares, sighs, and fixes Levi with an icy gaze that’s all too familiar.

Erwin smells something fishy. And rightfully so.

“Frieda Reiss was bitten and turned the same day as Eren,” Levi states. He turns this information over in his head for a moment.

“Do you remember the day I brought Christa home?”

“April fifth. You picked her up from one of your little feelers out in the city,” Levi replies. He remembers that day fairly well. It was a sudden adoption that took a few days to put into place and the child Erwin brought home looked haggard. The little thing had seemed baffled at the idea Erwin was keeping her. She spilled juice on the counter and expected to be thrown out. It was pathetic to watch.

“Yes, well…the day she legally became an orphan is relevant,” Erwin mutters. “Alma Loper was murdered on the Loper farmlands on—”

“Let me guess,” Levi bites out. “March thirty-first.”

Erwin hums. Levi clenches his fists and growls.

“What the  _hell_ —?”

“I know,” Erwin deadpans. He rolls his shoulder and resumes his walk, Levi tensing as they sync their steps. “I want to look into it a bit more. Do you think you can manage some information retrieval?”

“It won’t be easy. Ten years is more than enough time to destroy evidence.” Levi raises his shoulders as another group of men pass him by. The stench of their aftershave makes him want to choke. “You sure you want to get into this  _now_?”

“I just want to check. I wouldn’t want to burden the kids. Especially during the holidays.” Erwin keeps his tone light, that stupid fatherly grin Levi hates seeing dotting his features. “Thanksgiving is stressful enough, don’t you think?”

Levi frowns. He’s never been good at pretending things weren’t serious. There’s a prickling on his neck from the mutilated skin under his collar but he chokes it down. Erwin begins chattering about a sporting bow set he wants to purchase for Sasha but it’s only small talk.  It’s only a distraction so the heavier talk can wait for when they’re alone.

Levi swears he hears the cackling from that night in the field. He pushes back the thought and focuses on finding a Christmas present Eren won’t break in five minutes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#31: After the night in the field, Levi woke covered in bandages in a strange bed. He was alone. He screamed his throat raw when he looked to his side and saw the Choctaw primer he'd been pouring over just before everything went to hell. 
> 
> COMMENTS are amazing and desired and motivational, as are trips to my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'm totally available all the time and ready to make friends. My [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) is filled with nonsensical bits and doodads from life and maybe some sneak peeks, so visit it!


	32. The Feast: or: Comfort Through Sandwiches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turkey sandwich is close enough to the feast this cursed holiday seems intent on foisting upon everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Or as Eren calls it, "Happy You-Slaughtered-My-Ancestors-You-Sick-Fucks Day". He's a bitter child. 
> 
> This finally catches everything up to where I can return to a NORMAL update schedule. Thank god. JEM week will throw me off but for this fic I can go back to mostly normal. As normal as things can be when Marco is twice undead. 
> 
> This chapter goes to everyone out there like me who feels immensely uncomfortable in nearly every conversation with relatives I don't know that well. Now I can go and watch people kill each other over towels in Black Friday security footage.

 

Thanksgiving feels  _alien_  to Jean.

Then again, he _is_  French. He wasn’t aware the holiday was a big deal until his mother told him he was getting an entire week off of school because of dinner on Thursday. Turkeys suddenly began appearing on calendars. Everyone wouldn’t shut up about pie and stuffing. His teachers told the same story every year of pilgrims coming to the New World and how they all had a happy feast to celebrate being thankful with the natives, and how America does it now to honor their great nation. Jean smelled the crock of shit behind that story as soon as he heard it, but he said nothing. He did as he was told to do. He kept his head down and did what his parents asked because this was America and they were Americans now.

Looking at pictures of what the holiday is supposed to be, looking at large families sitting around a table enjoying themselves, he realizes that in his home it feels… _fake_. This year most of all.

For a holiday that glorifies  _dinner_ , they always eat the food at lunch. Just him, his parents, and the servants that do nothing but clean their mess and keep their eyes to the floor. They sit at the table and eat a feast his mother had no hand in making. They make small talk to cover up the fact no one from their extended family is near. They pretend they’re happy Americans who have always done this and understand why this stupid dinner is important.

This year Jean can feel the sword of Damocles above their heads as no conversation flows and they’re left with a choking silence. The tense situation in the house has been ignored until now. Jean has come and gone and somewhat settled into his normal routine again while barely interacting with his family. But this holiday breaks that careful coexistence and scatters the pieces everywhere.

He and his father meet eyes a few times and Jean can feel the man study him. He keeps his shoulders tall as an unspoken dare.

_Go on. Ask. Ask about it and admit it happened._

But he says nothing. He stares at his son over the table and leads the family in a prayer for all their blessings. Jean grimaces when he doesn’t even bother to thank the cook but praises the Lord above for the food on the table. As if God was the one who slow cooked the damn turkey and made their gravy.

One of these days, he’s going to give that poor woman in the kitchen a raise when his parents aren’t looking.

His mother looks between her spouse and her child with worry. There are lines in her eyes Jean can’t remember seeing before Halloween and a sense of guilt claws its ways through his stomach. She tries to smile and keep spirits high and he’ll give her that. He smiles back at her before the feeling of his father’s stare bores into his head again.

In the end it’s his father who begins the only conversation. He continues to ignore the elephant trying so hard to win their attention.

“So. Exams are coming up. How are you doing in your classes?”

“Fine,” Jean answers. He barely understands the material and he wants nothing more than for the break to go on forever. Without Hitch and her notes, he knows he would have flunked out a few weeks in.

“Have you selected your courses for next semester?” his father continues.

“Yes.” Jean keeps his eyes to his plate and shovels more food into his mouth. He can hear his father shifting in his seat. The old man’s silent outrage at Jean’s one word answers shows in the white knuckles gripping his fork.

“I’ve noticed you have a lot of… _extra things_  in your room.”

Jean falters.

He knows exactly what his father is talking about. Eren’s gifts. The gloves, cookies, chocolates, earmuffs, a damn  _charm to warm his pockets when it’s cold_ — Eren has been throwing trinkets at him all month and he’s been piling them in his room. He likes being able to see them. It makes him feel like Eren’s smothering follows him home.

It reminds him Eren said he  _wanted_  him. That  _Marco_  wanted him. It’s a reminder  _that_  part of Jean’s life is real and he can always run to it when school is too much and his house feels like it’s closing in.

Jean swallows and meets his father’s eyes. Orson Kirschstein is a stern man, a smart man, and the suspicion he holds is evident with the way he’s staring Jean down.

“They’re from Hitch,” Jean answers.

His mother smiles, tense and tight and _forced_ ,and Jean feels the guilt in his stomach again. “Oh, you two are still together?”

“Yes. We’re very happy.”

Orson stares at his son for a few moments longer and resumes eating. “I heard the black boy survived. Is he still working with you?”

This time Jean doesn’t bother to hide what he feels. He glares at his father and sets his own fork down. “Yes. He is. He’s one of the best men Erwin has.”

“I admire his progressiveness. Erwin Smith is an influential man and I have no doubts in his business, but…think about what people will  _say_ ,” his father hisses back.

“What?  _What_  will people say?” Jean clenches his fists. “Go on and say it.”

“I don’t think that way, but the people here  _do_ , Jean!” Orson slams his hand on the table and Jean can see his mother flinch. “What they think determines the rest of your life! If your reputation goes down, then all the work your mother and I have done was for nothing!”

“And don’t you think maybe that’s what’s _wrong_  with this goddamn country!” Jean shoots up, throwing his napkin down onto the tabletop and baring his teeth as he faces his father. Orson grips the tableside and his face turns a bit red as he resists rising to gain his height back over his son.

“It isn’t my job to pick apart the country! My job is to make sure you and your mother are happy! Happy and alive and not treated like, like—”

“Not treated how we treat others just like us when we see them in the streets,” Jean finishes. He curls his lip in disgust. “I get it now. Just blend in and pretend nothing is wrong. Pretend we aren’t the thing all your business partners love to hate. Do you even speak up when they say things about _you_ , or do you laugh with them?”

Orson doesn’t have an answer for that.

Jean turns and leaves the dining room, refusing to look back as he passes the shocked house staff. “I’m going out. Happy Thanksgiving.”

 

 

 

The weird tradition of eating dinner for lunch on this holiday seems to be universal. When Jean stumbles into the Smith estate, the food is packed away and everyone is running around chatting about Christmas. He finds Marco in the sitting room relaxing and collapses with the intent to stay there all day.

“Did something happen?”

Jean makes a noise in his throat, burying himself deeper into the cushions of the sofa as he and Marco watch the Christmas boxes get unpacked. Between Sasha and Annie alone is enough mistletoe to make an army kiss each other. Marco pats Jean’s knee in sympathy and settles even closer against him. Jean shows his thanks by nuzzling his forehead against the softness of Marco’s sweater.

This is much better. He feels safe here. The argument can’t follow him and he can pretend the situation at home hasn’t gotten worse. He can’t imagine what his father is going to do now that Jean’s fought back twice in a row.

 Jean lifts his head from the soft fabric to count the freckles on Marco’s cheeks. Faintly, he remembers Marco hasn’t said anything about his own situation. Doesn’t he have siblings? Did he go out at all today? “Don’t you have family outside the house?”

Marco purses his lips. “Told them I was sick.”

Jean watches Marco’s discolored eye point to the floor. He understands. He doesn’t know what Marco is planning to do about that. Is he going to tell his family? Lie?

Eren interrupts the moment by leaping over the decorations on the floor and presenting a tray of sandwiches. Jean snorts when he sees Eren’s shirt missing, leaving only the fuzzy hairs creeping up his chest to cover him against the chill in the house. “What the hell happened to your shirt?”

“Cranberry stain. Levi ripped it right off of me.” Eren shrugs. He lays the tray gently in Marco’s lap and goes to fit himself snugly against Marco’s other side. Jean doesn’t feel very hungry but Eren nudges the tray closer and Jean takes a sandwich for himself.

“He’s started the cleanup already?” Marco asks, biting into his own sandwich and eyeing Eren’s chest with interest.

“You know how he gets. Sasha left enough crumbs on the table to make him froth at the mouth.” Eren scoots closer and lays his head against Marco’s shoulder. He makes a happy humming noise and Marco pats his hair.

Jean finally takes a bite of his own sandwich. A small moan escapes with the realization it’s  _exactly_  what he needed. The images from the markets and calendars fade away and this simple little plate is all the feast he needs. 

Eren smugly grins from his side of the sofa. Point to him for keeping his mate happy.

Jean wipes his mouth before speaking again. “Aren’t you going to get another shirt?”

“Eh.” Eren shrugs one shoulder noncommittally. “Hair’s actually keeping me pretty warm.”

“When did that happen, anyway? This summer you barely had anything.” Jean cranes his head to squint at Eren’s skin.

Eren shrugs again. He blows a bit of hair away from his face and Jean realizes Eren desperately needs a haircut. The short shaggy look from the beginning of summer is looking long and scruffy.

But he says nothing. He allows himself to melt against one of his boyfriends and relax. The three of them fall into a comfortable silence, the sandwiches are finished, and the tray is set on the floor so Eren can lean even more of himself against Marco.

Annie quips one “Gross” at them when she passes by holding another box, and Eren blows a raspberry at her.  Annie throws a mistletoe bunch at Eren’s face in return.

Marco lovingly plucks the leaves out of Eren’s mouth and throws them toward the rest of the bunch on the rug. “You know, I told my mom I would have dinner at the house to make up for today.”

Jean and Eren shift a bit in their seats.

“I think… I think I’ll cover the eye for now. Tell them it was an accident. I don’t want them to worry,” Marco finishes. He trails off to mumbles, Eren lifting one hand to softly trace his cheekbones. “Would you two…be interested in coming along?”

“Anything you want, baby,” Eren answers immediately. “Ma Bodt loves me anyway.”

Jean bites his lip when the two of them look to him. On one hand, the guilt for Marco’s eye is crawling back up in icy veins. He doesn’t know how he could handle sitting in a room of Bodts when he nearly got Marco killed….

On the other, he would very much like to meet Marco’s family. He wants to see where this amazing person came from.

With pink dusting his face, Jean presses a peck to Marco’s cheek. “…I’ll come. Can’t promise I won’t fuck it up, though.”

Marco opens his mouth, surely to tell Jean he’ll be fine, but Eren beats him to the punch.

“You’ll have plenty of room for fuckups at Erwin’s Christmas party.”

Jean frowns. In the driest voice he can muster he replies, “You have so much faith in me. Thank you.”

“I try.” Eren smiles back.

The three of them share small grins before Annie’s voice cuts through their moment. “Can you three stop being gross now? We’re trying to work.”

Jean buries his face in Marco’s shoulder and Eren blows another raspberry in Annie’s direction. He forgets all about the argument at home and instead begins planning what to wear to dinner.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#32: Eren does not like Thanksgiving, about as much as he does not like Halloween, but he also cannot refuse to eat. He just snacks angrily and glares at anyone who dares mention the pilgrims. Fuck them and their big buckles and hats. Fuck them and their position in the eventual genocide of countless tribes. 
> 
> COMMENTS are like presents, so leave plenty. Take a trip to my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'm gonna be dropping some amazing holiday goodies soon. My [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) is also a bountiful bundle of fun stuff so check that out.


	33. The Dinner: or: Mabel Bodt Does Not Take Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mabel Bodt follows her brothers footsteps much closer than expected. They say women mature faster than men, anyhow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hrrrghle the holiday season kills my ability to work on anything. I'm not even happy about how this came out and I still have JEM week to do and the only positive thing going on is that my editor is actually sitting next to me and we're having fun being idiots together for the first time since we met five years ago on fanfiction.net. 
> 
> AND NOW...THE INTRODUCTION OF MABEL BODT. The Bodtling that I claim qualifies as New Orlean's very first Magical Girl and the girl who can probably whip your ass six ways to Sunday. Gosh I love her.

 

 

The neighborhood the Bodt family has occupied for several generations now is a shabby little patch of homes dangerously close to the muddy water that surrounds the city. The roads are lumpy and cracked, the houses have chipped paint, and whenever there’s a flood, it is in fact a miracle of some sort of god the houses don’t wash away.

To Marco, it’s home.

The _incident_  aside, he has plenty of fond memories of this place. He remembers playing baseball with the other kids and scrambling when cars were coming. He remembers teaching his sister hopscotch. He remembers climbing close to the water and showing Maurice the tiny fish that swam close to shore for scraps. He remembers helping his mother in the kitchen, his father telling stories from his boat, the warmth of the Bodt family home despite the thin walls and cramped space…

Going to the make-up dinner, the three men pass a swarm of dirt smeared children, and Marco presumes it’s the next era of street baseball in action as Jean stares out the window taking in everything Marco’s birthplace has to offer. Eren is too busy psyching himself up for Ma Bodt’s cooking in the backseat to even look.

Marco offers a smile as he pulls the car up to the Bodt residence.

It’s a shabby looking house. The walls lean weirdly and the wood looks warped by the sea air in a few places. The roof bends like it wants to break but Marco knows it’s as solid as ever. A bike lays toppled on its side in the lawn and a few brown patches near a bare tree give way to a tire swing. Under the tree also sits Marco’s brother Kyle, who is beating a pile of dirt with a stick and grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

Sitting in the tree itself are an oddly numerous amount of crows.

Marco adjusts the patch over his eye. He doesn’t need to—Eren somehow came up with one that fit snugly (claiming he had it  _specially made_ but offering no other information)—but the notion of moving it is comforting somehow.

Taking a deep breath, Marco exits the vehicle and Kyle gasps before running over. Jean follows shyly and Eren all but leaps out.

“Marco! We’s thought you left town!” Kyle’s grin is missing teeth and his hair doesn’t appear combed in the slightest. Jean smiles a bit when he sees the mismatched button job on his coat and the dirt caked to his hands. Marco’s sibling rundown on the ride over was right; Kyle Bodt is a bundle of energy. Marco lifts him into a bear hug and whirls him around just once before setting him down.

“Ain’t gone yet. Ma inside?”

Kyle nods. “She gots Maurice an’ Mabel helpin’ her out.”

“And why aren’t  _you_  helping?” Marco asks, crossing his arms in mock seriousness.

“Kept eatin’ the taters.” Kyle shrugs. “You wanna hunt bugs with me?”

“Not tonight, little man.” Marco shakes his head. The door opens, flooding the lawn with light, and the swish of a floral dress is followed by a stern look so severe every boy present feels like they’ve done something wrong.

Mabel Bodt stands in the doorway glaring them all down. Her dress is immaculate, hair styled with an elegant bow, and her frown sharp enough to kill.  She takes note of Marco’s guests, eyeing Jean for a little longer than needed, and then directs her attention to Kyle.

“Kyle. Wash up.”

Kyle runs toward the door and vanishes under Mabel’s arm into the depths of the house. She steps aside and the boys on the lawn take their cue to follow suit. Marco, ignoring the frown on Mabel’s face as only family can, flashes a big smile at his little sister as they approach the door.

“You’ve gotten big, Mabel. How have you been?”

“Oppressed,” Mabel replies flatly.

Marco doesn’t even miss a beat. “Does Ma know you’re doing that?”

“No. And she isn’t going to find out.” Mabel cocks one brow at them as they enter, shutting the door and marching back towards the kitchen. “Dinner in ten. Marco, follow me.”

Marco leaves Jean and Eren at the kitchen entrance with an order to make themselves comfortable. Eren smiles big and eases towards the area where Ma Bodt has piled the completed dishes, and Jean awkwardly looks for a place to sit that will keep him out of everyone’s way. Somewhere deeper in the house, Kyle screams he can’t find his pants.

Mabel leads Marco the long way around, past the table and to the backdoor where their mother can’t see them. Marco opens his mouth to question where they’re going but Mabel leads them into the backyard towards a structure he doesn’t remember being there last time he was home, and the words die on his tongue.

The bare tree that takes up the corner of the backyard is surrounded by tin and wood in a makeshift clubhouse. Above it sit more crows who watch them with interest. Materials from crates, boats, a cracked window Marco remembers seeing in a run-down lawn down the street for years—all of them piled together at the trunk of the tree into a structure vaguely resembling a tiny house. Mabel yanks open the door, a sheet of tin with a handle made from wire, and gestures to the inside.

Marco pauses and points to himself unsurely.

Mabel nods.

“Hurry up. Ma won’t leave you alone for a second when she hears about your face.”

Marco knows she’s right. Their mother is a tenacious woman and hearing that just one of her flock is hurt will send her into a frenzy.

With a glance toward the house and no signal someone is calling them in, Marco ducks his torso low and squeezes inside. The inside is as makeshift as the outside, a patchwork of wood and tin with tape and glue and nails showing themselves in odd corners. A sign with a lopsided “Neighborhood Wotch”in sloppy painthangs next to the cracked window and a few nails in a row on the opposite wall seem to serve as a coat rack. Surprisingly, more wood makes up the floor and Marco is pleased to see very little dirt as he takes a seat.

“Did you build this yourself? Maurice and I tried something like this but we kept arguing over whether or not to put it _in_  the tree—”

Mabel slams the door and whirls around to stare at her brother with barely restrained fury. Marco halts in his story and the words trail off to dissipate into nothing. Mabel checks the window, making sure no one is looking, and then steps forward to deliver a brutal _slap_  to Marco’s face.

“Ow!” Marco’s head turns, his own hand coming up to cradle his cheek before being batted away and tiny nails rip at the patch covering his eye. “Mabel, no! Sto—”

The patch comes off in Mabel’s hands and Marco’s heart skips when she immediately tilts his head to look into his eye.

“You died again.”

Marco swallows. Memories of Halloween, of the car accident—they return and fill his stomach with rocks as Mabel clutches the patch so tightly her knuckles turn pale.  _Again_ , she said.  _Again_.

A horrible claw of guilt buries itself in his chest as Marco realizes Mabel  _remembers_. She remembers and he never knew.

“Mabel…”

“You died  _again_!” Mabel throws the patch at him, hitting him in the chest, and clenches her fists when Marco scrambles to catch it. “What was it this time? Hit by another car? Mugged? Fall into the river? Were you planning to act like it never happened  _again_  and leave me to clean up the mess?”

The claw in Marco’s chest tightens its grip. Mabel’s frown intensifies at his silence and for once, Marco Bodt is at a loss for what to say.

“…shot. I was shot,” he whispers.

“Shot,” Mabel repeats. “I can’t believe you. When?”

“Halloween.” Marco thumbs over the patch in his hands, lifting it to refasten over his eye. “Mabel, I… I didn’t know you—”

“No. You  _didn’t_  know. You  _never_  know. You just ignore the problem and act like it’ll go away.” Mabel crosses her arms, a small shiver escaping her form from the cold as she turns to the small window between them. “Did _he_  talk to you?”

“He?”

“You know who.” Mabel turns her head back to glare at him, wrinkling her nose the same way she did when she was small and displeased with the mash their mother tried to feed her. “He should have come. He’s supposed to tell you about the job. About the Gates.”

“I…” Marco furrows his brow as he thinks. He remembers the deep voice. He remembers a mouth with too many teeth, small phrases swimming around in his head and turning his bones to ice. But they seem locked behind a wall of images that make no sense. “I can’t remember.” Mabel scoffs. “Not that well, anyway. It’s… It’s a lot…”

Mabel makes a noise of exasperation. “Great, another job _I_  have to do…”

“Mabel—”

“Just like him to make me do it. That  _ass_.” Mabel shakes her head and faces Marco again. “What  _do_  you remember?”

Marco blinks. He twitches his fingers, rolling his free eye to remember the bits and pieces that have come back, biting his lip as the spare puzzle pieces fail to link together.

“Something about Gramma. And…a bunch of stuff about us, and people I know, but it’s not really them—”

“Alternate lives aren’t important. Gramma is.” Mabel cuts him off. “What  _about_  Gramma?”

“I don’t know, it didn’t make any sense and I didn’t want to hear it—”

“Did you  _argue_  with him? Is that why you don’t know anything?” Mabel looks as if she’s going to slap him again but relents and grips her own hair in frustration. “God, and I thought Maurice was a thick idiot.”

“You shouldn’t call your family stupid,” Marco states. Then he raises one hand to cradle his still-stinging cheek. “Or slap them. You’re ten. Your hand shouldn’t be this strong.”

“I’ll stop slapping you when _you_  stop being stupid.” Mabel pokes Marco in the chest, tilting his torso back toward the cold wall. “You’re not ignoring this anymore. Gramma said to give you time to adjust, and I did, and you ended up dying  _again_  because you didn’t know any better.”

“Gramma told you— Wait, what?”

A tapping from the little cracked window catches their attention before Mabel can answer. A crow stands on the ledge and pecks at the glass, cawing once before flapping its wings. Mabel sighs and the anger held in her shoulders fades away.

“Dinner. Time’s up.” Mabel straightens herself, adjusting her dress to look prim and proper before opening the door and stepping out. Marco follows and shies away from another crow standing in the grass outside. It rises into the air with a messy flap of its wings and lands on Mabel’s shoulder, dropping a nickel into her palm. Mabel pockets it and pats the bird on its head before it leaves to join its brethren in the tree.

Marco watches the exchange utterly mystified.

“You would know about this if you weren’t thick as bricks.” Mabel watches the crow take its perch before she leads the way back to the house. Marco trudges along after her, watching the swish of her skirt and jumping when she speaks again. “Come back on Christmas. Ilse will be here. You can talk to her.”

“Why can’t we talk now?”

“Because you have a thick head, I’m ten, and this is a talk you gotta have without Ma nearby.” Mabel yanks open the backdoor and the smells of fresh food wafts into the cold air. “In the meantime, tell us all why the hell you brought a white boy with you. That should take up all of dinner.”

With that, she vanishes into the house, leaving her confused brother behind and standing in the cold.

Marco blinks for a moment, absorbing everything that just happened. Somehow he’s found out so much but he still knows so little. The idea of returning on Christmas nags at his brain, a headache beginning to settle at the mention of his not-often-seen cousin Ilse, and Marco frowns when the titters of anxiety begin to settle back into his body as if they never left. He wants more than anything at the moment to curl up with Jean’s and Eren’s arms around him, like they did after Halloween, but…

But he feels like that isn’t an option for this situation.

“Marco Cyril Bodt! What is Kyle tellin’ me ‘bout your face!?”

Marco startles when his mother’s voice cuts through his thoughts, rushing through the door and bracing himself for the scream and scolding he knows his mother will have ready in a heartbeat.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#33: Mabel Andromeda Bodt did not need to die to become aware of the family gift. 
> 
> COMMENTS are the only Christmas presents I really need. Don't forget to gander at my [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) where I'm always posting inspiration and extra material. And my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) is always full of babbling goodies so take a spin there.


	34. The Christmas Party: or: Gifts Worth Giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's supposed to be a cliche line about love and the holidays, but let's be honest. That sort of thing doesn't fly here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so LAAAAAATE
> 
> I don't know what it is about December but the second it starts my ability to do diddly just vanishes into the abyss. All I've managed to do is become Star Wars trash. Also I've been so pleased with the reaction to Mabel's introduction, she's really gunning at taking away Hitch's spot as the reader favorite and the fact you all like her pleases me. 
> 
> BONUS CONTENT TIME!  
> Viella's amazing [Bootleggers Marco](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CWoNkY5WsAAMtnp.png)  
> ['The First After'](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/post/136012696323/the-first-after-a-bootleggers-extra-a-little), an extra I wrote for Christmas about smol Eren  
> [JEM week 1: Dance](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/post/135667528738/jem-week-1-dance-taking-place-in-the-erejeanmarco), which I managed to get out on time before an unexpected lightning strike ruined my week and pretty much fucked my production schedule
> 
> NOTE: since this chapter is so damn late, that means in-story everyone is still stuck in December. This chapter was meant to come out either Christmas Eve or a few days before.

 

 

“A little higher… A little higher… Jean, man, can you make it go any faster?”

Jean frowns, gripping his wand a bit tighter as he urges the garland to ascend to the top of the archway. On ladders, Eren and Reiner urge it upwards impatiently. The “ballroom”—officially the party room the Smith family used to use for fine dining—is decked to the nines in shades of red, green, and gold. Glittering garlands and trees make each corner shine with Christmas spirit and Jean has spent a very good chunk of his day assisting with the decorations.

He tries for just a little faster, dropping his wand when instead of complying, the stick shocks his hand and shoots off a golden ray of sparks.

His “Ow!” mixes with Eren and Reiner’s booming, “NO!” as the garland falls to its untimely end—only for it to halt inches off the ground, suspended.

“That wand is garbage.” Annie holds her hand steady as she approaches, a basket of silverware at her side. She flicks her fingers and the garland finally rises to settle on the nail gently. Reiner slumps on his ladder in relief and sends a grateful thumb up to the smaller blonde.

“It’s a family heirloom,” Jean protests. He picks up the wand from the floor and scowls at it, tucking it into his pocket before it can blow his fingers off.

“Exactly. Garbage. You need equipment fit for  _you_.” Annie hefts her basket of silverware up and tosses a fork up to Reiner, who catches it with a confused look on his face. “Touch Eren with that real quick.”

Reiner does so.

Eren screams and bats it away from his hand, waving it and blowing on it as if it’d been set on fire.

“Okay, so this _is_  the silver set.” Annie catches the fork when Reiner tosses it down and throws it back in the basket. “Thanks for clearing that up before we set the table.”

“You could have gotten Mikasa to do it!” Eren yells.

“And ruin her perfect skin?” Annie deadpans in return. “By the way, Levi says he laid your new suit out on your bed. You should get changed soon.”

Eren pauses, hand halfway poised to deliver a very rude gesture to Annie, and looks to the floor with a grimace. “…I wonder if jumpin’ from this height could kill me.”

“I could throw you,” Reiner adds in. “Like a ragdoll. Make it much quicker.”

“You’re a good friend, Reiner.” Eren reaches over to pat Reiner on his arm, brushing away an imaginary tear before beginning his descent to the floor. Annie turns and retreats with the basket, leaving one final order for Eren to  _put his suit on_  and wandering off to find the non-silver eating utensils. Jean shakes his head and groans at the thought of getting ready.

“ _Merde_ , I still have to pick up Hitch…”

“Who’s Hitch?” Eren slinks up behind him, squinting at Jean’s sheepish expression when he realizes just what Eren asked.

“Well…okay, to clarify, I didn’t want to bring her at all, but apparently Erwin’s party is a big deal—”

“Jean.”

“—and the second she found out she got angry I didn’t tell her I was invited—”

“Jean.”

“—and I don’t even have much of a choice so I  _have_  to bring her—”

“ _Jean_.” Eren grips Jean’s jaw and angles his head down. “Get to the point. Who is she?”

“We, uh… We have this arrangement.” Jean’s eyes dart away from Eren’s face. “She’s with a guy she’s not supposed to be with, and…I’m kind of in the same boat…so…we pretend we’re dating.”

“Oh, shit, Jean’s got a beard?” Reiner slams one of his large hands down on top of Jean’s shoulder and knocks the wind out of the wizard. “Good work, man!”

Jean hisses from the pain and inches away from the deadly weapon that is Reiner’s hand. Eren bats it away before catching Jean’s attention and pressing a small kiss to his cheek, pulling his taller mate down to comfortably reach his face.

“You have a beard. It’s fine. I get it.”

“You aren’t upset?” Jean pulls away, backing up a step, unconvinced and eyeing him warily.

“I’m fine. It’ll be fine,” Eren assures him. He gives the brightest smile he can and for a moment, Jean sends one back before going off to pick up his date for the evening. If Eren says he’ll be fine, then it’ll be fine. Perfectly fine.

 

 

It isn’t fine.

Eren can feel the glass of sparkling cider cracking under his fingers but he can’t summon the ability to  _care_  until Marco plucks it from his fingers and sets it on a table.

Out on the floor, surrounded by the usual slew of Erwin’s guests (the Important People of New Orleans Erwin is all but required to entertain several times a year), Jean masks his discomfort through smiles that are too forced to be comfortable. Glued to his side and  _putting her hands all over him_  is a radiant girl in a golden gown, sparkling like the North Star itself and smiling so naturally Eren is  _almost_  fooled into thinking it’s real.

That bitch.

“She’s a beard, Eren. Relax.” Marco’s voice soothes him just a little, muscle tension in his arms lessening as Marco smiles down and adjusts the bowtie to his own suit. Eren’s never felt particularly comfortable in suits, even less so after coming into lycanthropy, but seeing Marco in his modest set makes his stomach flip in ways that are very nice indeed. He’s only slightly saddened by the black patch covering Marco’s eye.

Jean’s own suit isn’t bad, either; it’s tailored and well-fitting and shows him off in all the right ways, but… Again, that  _bitch_.

“He didn’t tell us about her,” Eren mumbles. He watches one manicured hand gently move Jean’s hair from his face and suddenly the rage is all but  _mind numbing_. That’s  _his_  mate  _his mate_  not  _hers_   _she has no right to touch what’s his_ — “Does he really want this? Do you think he’s humoring us?”

“No.” Marco shakes his head and bumps Eren’s side gently, forcing his attention away from the scene in front of them. “He wants it. Stop being dramatic.”

“I can’t help it. She’s _touching_  him.” Marco just looks at him like he said the moon was purple. Eren gives up, shaking his head and returning to glaring at the little socialite who thinks resting her head on his mate is  _cute_.

“Is this a werewolf thing?”

“ _Yes_. It’s a fuckin’  _werewolf thing_. This is  _mortal werewolf sin number one_.” Eren can feel his good eye twitch, a growl forming low in his throat as the primal part of his mind tells him to do the right thing: march over there and  _fight her_  for draping herself on what’s his. Marco sighs and checks to see no one is looking their way before taking one of Eren’s hands in his own.

The effect is instantaneous. Eren deflates, letting out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding and leaning into the touch softly. Marco strokes the back of his hand with his thumb and offers a quiet shushing. In the crowd of Important People, Jean breaks from an awkward talk with a socialite Erwin went to college with and finally sees the corner Eren decided to park in for the evening. His smile is genuine and very relieved.

Jean manages to tug himself and his date away and Marco feels overly grateful when he leads them directly to the corner.

He immediately feels less grateful when Jean’s date sees Eren and proceeds to smother herself to Jean’s side even more than before.

“Oh, is this them? That’s adorable. Hitch Dreyse, of the uptown Dreyse’s.” Hitch holds out her hand for a moment, Marco freeing his hand from Eren and giving a polite shake while Eren glares at it like it’s offensive, before snatching it back to bury her fingers in Jean’s coat. Marco shrinks a bit under her gaze, which seems some threatening combination of hungry and plotting. “I believe I saw  _you_  briefly on Halloween, and you…” She cocks her head at Eren. She looks him up and down, humming to herself and wrinkling her nose at the sloppy job Eren did tying his tie. “Mexican?”

Eren narrows his eyes. “Choctaw.”

“Close enough.” Hitch waves it off and turns back to Jean, nestling against him a bit more and ignoring the growl Eren doesn’t bother to choke down. “I still have networking to do, sweetie. The man gorging himself on finger sandwiches owns the biggest production site in the city, and he needs to be in my book before the night is over.”

“Can’t you do it yourself this time?” Jean bristles.

“Of course not— I’m a lady. They’ll only talk to me to ask me about parties. You know this.” She flattens the lapel of Jean’s suit beneath nimble fingers and Eren growls again, claws finally emerging and forcing Marco to let go of his hand before he breaks the skin. Hitch finally seems to notice Eren’s anger but doesn’t seem to care, if her nonchalant tone is anything to go by. “Does this bother you?”

Jean shakes her off and steps closer to gently push Eren towards the wall. “Hitch. Stop. You aren’t funny.”

“I’m only teasing, dear.” Hitch twirls a bit of her hair around one finger and sends an idle wave to a middle aged businessman passing by with his date. “Honestly, though, a native werewolf? Do you  _like_ making my life hard?”

“It’s the only thing that gives my life meaning,” Jean replies dryly.

“You smell like her perfume,” Eren cuts in. “Hey lady, ‘rat piss soaked in flowers’ isn’t a good scent for you.”

Hitch gasps, face going red as the fake friendliness drains from her face and the anger Jean remembers from many a public girl fight appears. “ _Excuse_  me, you flea ridden—”

“Both of you  _shut up_!”

Hitch and Eren both freeze. Jean blinks at the sudden silence and turns to look at Marco, who is rubbing his temple and sighing deeply. He closes his eye before offering his most polite smile to Hitch. Eren and Jean both feel a sliver of fear at this particular smile, as it carries the patent Bodt promise of a tongue lashing as soon as the present company is gone.

“Miss Dreyse, it was an honor to meet you tonight. Over by the drinks, you may find better conversation with Mr. Zackley, who runs a good half of the city and enjoys company of all sorts.”

Hitch considers this for a moment. Jean can see her mull it over in her mind before she carefully constructs the same fake smile she formed at the door.

“Thank you.” She offers a nod to Marco before shooting Eren a small frown and patting Jean on the cheek. “I’ll be back. We aren’t done here.”

With that, she turns on fine heels and leaves, leaving Jean to breathe a sigh of relief and Eren to growl at the whiff of perfume she left behind.

Until Marco cuffs him on the back of the head, at least.

“Stop it.” Marco’s glare isn’t as effective with one eye hidden, but the remaining eye does its job well enough to make Eren shrink. “You’re acting like a toddler; you’re  _twenty_  for God’s sake.”

“She has that effect on people,” Jean mumbles. He comes a bit closer, looking over his shoulder for any prying eyes before allowing his shoulders to sag. He offers a small smile and gives a once over to the suits his boys are wearing.

Normally, this is the point where Eren would give one of his extra-long hugs and Marco would poke fun at the blush on Jean’s cheeks. But the presence of people, of the act of just being friends, smothers the mood and leaves behind a tension that wears them all down. So Eren and Marco smile back. It’s all they can do.

“So…what are your plans for Christmas?” Jean awkwardly scratches at his hair.

“Going home,” Marco replies sadly. The sick look he spent October fighting crosses his face again but he chokes it down. “I, uh… I have a cousin who might be able to explain. The eye thing. I’m not looking forward to it.”

Jean’s jaw tightens and Eren leans against Marco in an attempt to soothe.

“…will you tell us what you find out?” Eren asks.

“Maybe…after the new year.” Marco offers a shaky smile. “No sense in dragging this business into the holidays. Right?”

No one replies to that.

Eren picks up the conversation in Marco’s stead.

“Gonna call my grandpa up in Oklahoma. Thank him for whatever gift he sent down this year.” Eren rolls his shoulder and looks out into the crowd, picking out the few faces he can recognize. He spots Nile and his family and knows sooner or later his kids are going to swarm him like they have every year since they began attending these parties. “Might go to the community. Christa and Reiner both bailed tonight to go, and I should see how Bert’s doing. Make sure Frieda’s okay. You?”

Jean frowns. “I can’t get out of spending the day at home. So that isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Marco and Eren both wince in sympathy.

“I think Dad will want to talk about my behavior recently… I’ll do what I have to. At least for  _Maman_. I don’t like seeing her upset.” Jean shakes his head.

“It’s okay. I’m sure things will get better,” Marco offers hopefully.

Jean smiles again, but it’s bittersweet. “They’ll have to. Dad wants me to start getting involved with the business. He’s been dropping hints about putting me on some revitalization project he’s investing in.”

“Sounds like a hoot.” Eren rolls his eyes.

“Hitch knows more about it than I do. Some touch ups to Canal Street or something. I’ll just relay it all back to her anyway,” Jean mutters the last bit and looks off to the side, pointedly avoiding Eren’s eyes. “I’ll probably ask Erwin for more jobs to come our way just to stay busy.”

“We need to be active again. Don’t worry about it,” Marco soothes.

“Why are we talkin’ about work, anyway?” Eren stretches and steps away from the wall, jerking his head toward the archway that leads to the rest of the house. “C’mon. Too many people in here. I’m sweatin’ through this damn button up.”

Jean chuckles and Marco just shakes his head. They follow him anyway as he brushes past guests with drinks and leads them toward one of the larger Christmas trees. The family tree. Jean knows this one—he was there when Annie set up her little crystal lights on it. Underneath are piles of gifts in a myriad of different wrappings. Eren swipes two of them.

Marco raises his brow but Eren leads them out of the room next and toward the stairwell. One level up and off to the side, toward a window with a little reading nook—Eren suddenly stops and sets the gifts down before pulling Jean forward by his coat.

“Eren, wha—? _Mmph_ —” Eren’s lips cover Jean’s, Jean melting into it far too easily before Eren  _bites_ down and laves his tongue over the wound with a groan. When they part, Jean blinks, dazed, and Eren tastes his own lips with a grin. Jean can only muster a high pitched, “Hm?”

“Had to get it out of my system.” Eren kisses him again, softer and much more chaste, before stepping away to grab one of the presents. It’s small, the box slim and long but topped with a rather showy bow. “And had to get this to you since you’ll be busy.”

Jean coughs, fighting away the flush on his cheeks before taking the box and turning it over in his hands. “I could,  um—I could wait, you know. To open it.”

“I have something else in mind for after Christmas. Open it now.” Eren fidgets a bit in excitement before grabbing the other, and much larger, box and handing it to Marco.

Jean looks to Marco. Marco gives him a half-smile and a shrug.  _It’s Eren_ , he seems to say. _Just roll with it._

Jean tears away the bow and the tacky green paper, revealing a nondescript brown box. He lifts the top off with a questioning glance to Eren before his eyes go wide and the breath leaves his lungs.

It’s a wand.

It’s a  _gorgeous_  wand.

Redwood swirled with black, polished and shined to perfection, a handle carved with utter delicacy to the shape of a phoenix birthing itself from flames—Jean can only stare before he reaches to touch it and a shiver runs down his spine at the tingle of  _magic_  in his fingers.

“Wood was bathed in phoenix fire and cut from a two-hundred-year-old tree in  _England_ ,” Eren states. “Figured it’d be better than whatever you’re using.”

Jean lets out a shaky breath as he removes the wand from the box, fingers closing around the handle and feeling warmth spread from his fingers to his arm.

“It’s perfect.” His voice is tight, an amazing flutter in his chest becoming overwhelming, and Jean can only smile with unrestrained glee. “It’s really— _Thank you_ , I—”

Eren wraps his arms around him in a hug, nuzzling into his chest as the box clatters to the floor. Jean takes a moment to appreciate the contact, take in all he can get before he has to go home, before Eren steps back and smiles in Marco’s direction.

“Your turn, baby.”

Marco isn’t as hesitant and tears into his present with gusto. Jean turns his new wand over in his hands and flushes darker with how much affection he feels for Eren at the moment. He watches as Marco excitedly lifts a sturdy, boxy purse with a shiny clasp.

It’s fitted with a strap to wrap around the shoulder, and when Marco undoes the clasp, the opening lifts back to reveal trays and drawers.

“…these are all supplies.” Marco leafs through it all with a small smile blooming on his face. Herbs, bones, feathers, little jars sealed with every little thing Marco keeps in his workshop—it’s all there and every nook and cranny reveals more.

“So you don’t gotta grab everything you need from your shelves,” Eren explains. “Do you like it?”

“I  _love_  it, Eren. Thank you.”

“Good,” Eren breathes. Marco sets his new bag down by the window in time for Eren to grab his hand and then Jean’s, running his thumbs over them gently. “Because I have a big question for you both, and I need an answer.”

Marco and Jean blink at him expectantly.

“After Christmas, when you come back, I wanna wrap this all up. Make you mine.”

Jean flushes darker, if at all possible. “We kind of— We already are.”

“You know what I mean.” Eren lifts Jean’s hand up to press a soft kiss to his skin. “I wanna make it final. Last step. The question is…do you?”

Marco’s answer is immediate. “Yes.”

Jean blinks. He looks into Eren’s eyes, their hopefulness, their faint uncertainty—in the distance, he hears Hitch’s laughter ring against the halls of the Smith estate and the chatter of socialites that will expect him in their world rather soon. He remembers his mother and her urging to get him married.

Then he looks at their hands. His, Eren’s, and Marco’s.

For such a big choice, he doesn’t even take a moment to think about how this will affect the rest of his life.

All he knows is the idea of spending it with these two sounds better every day.

“ _Yes_.”

 

By the time Jean rejoins his girlfriend, he’s sporting some rather swollen lips and a smile that won’t stay down. In the pocket of his jacket, his new wand stays tucked away, a secret no one else knows that brings him too much joy for words. Hitch rolls her eyes at his attitude and drops a few hints the two of them have been  _rather busy_  to some other girls in attendance before scolding him. Her words fly in through one ear and come out the other. He’s far too elated to care.

Marco eases back into the crowd with Eren, an easier smile on his face as he takes a drink from a serving tray and downs half of it in one go. Eren taps his shoulder and tells him to pull his shirt collar a bit higher, smirking at the dark blossom peeking out. Marco rolls his eye but does as asked with a blush creeping up his neck.

When Erwin calls for a toast to the holidays, to family and friends and whatever other things he makes up on the spot (as he does every year, Annie can attest), the three of them raise their glasses and look to each other.

Happy holidays, indeed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#34: Since both of his boys were home with their families, Eren spent most of Christmas chasing everyone around the house with mistletoe. Ymir only managed to punch him once. 
> 
> COMMENTS are what I need to make a happy new year, and visits to the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) will be what YOU need since I post so much extra material. And the official Booties [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) aka MY twitter is always buzzing.


	35. The Last Step: or: Give Thine Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mating habits of the modern werewolf are considered strange, but truly it's a ritual built on earnest love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been AAAAGES and I am so very sorry for falling behind. Taking that into account: The official story timeline is currently at January 31st, 1920. We go on from here. 
> 
> Extras: The next OFFICIAL Bootleggers playlist, All Saints Day, is now OUT. This playlist serves as both a fun soundtrack to go along with the fic AND a tool that hides clues about the upcoming plotlines.
> 
> Listen to it ===> [HERE](http://8tracks.com/shingekicorn/bootleggers-all-saints-day)

 

 

 

The final step of a traditional werewolf courtship involves giving the desired party something worthless in monetary value, but high in personal value.

Traditionally, it’s a family heirloom—the ultimate symbol the courting party truly desires their mate to be part of their family. When Mike courted Nanaba, he presented her with a token of the Zacharias family his father had used, and his father before him.

Some make the final gifts with their own hands. One Kuklo Munsell, resident furniture maker of the New Orleans werewolf community, crafted a music box for his intended with her name carved into the wood in delicate cursive.  Ha had no familial possessions of his own, but he did have skilled hands and endless love for the human woman who had caught his eye.

Eren, presented with the challenge of courting two men at once, has thought long and hard on what he can give them that conveys just  _how much_  he wants them to be his.

The Christmas gifts were easy by comparison. Jean needed a wand that wasn’t shit and Marco had always fawned over Hanji’s carrying case of oddities. Eren didn’t hesitate to blow his summer earnings on those gifts.

But  _this_  gift… _This_  step isn’t meant for money. It’s about opening himself up and allowing these two people into what makes him a person, and he actually felt a bit stupid it took him so long to think of the right offering. But hindsight always has a tendency to make him feel that way, and he’s glad he finally knows what to give.

Now all he has to do is wait.

 

 

Marco and Jean’s return is marked by the both of them looking rather haggard. Tired, wound up, sluggish— Eren’s delight at seeing them again is marred by how exhausted they look.

So of course, as a good mate, it’s his job to fix that.

The obvious solution is to squirrel them away in Marco’s workshop under a large pile of blankets and a nice fire going in the little corner stove.

“You know, we would be just as warm in the house,” Jean mumbles. He doesn’t move from the lazy position he’s kept that day, nestled against Eren’s side with his head against his shoulder, but he does crack one amber eye open to sleepily scan across the expanse of brown skin serving as his pillow.

It’s true they would be better off in the house. Erwin keeps it well heated in the winter. But the idea of being so close to other people, where someone could _see_ —it makes Eren huff a small growl and tighten his arms around Jean and Marco. “No audience.”

His company doesn’t complain. They merely curl up closer and enjoy the coziness being offered.  Marco’s little home is warm enough anyway. Sure, the window has a nasty draft that requires the fire stay lit and somewhere in the corner is a mouse hole that needs patching, but it’s good. Good enough. Better than enough, as long as all three of them are comfortable.

That thought sends pleasant flutters through Eren’s frame. All three of them together.  _His_  boys, claimed and marked for everyone to see. Sleeping at night with both of them around him in endless blankets. The idea is so pleasant Eren becomes deathly close to releasing a giggle.

“Do you want to start now, or nap some more?” Eren strokes alongside Jean’s neck as he asks, relishing the shiver and flush the wizard gives in return and filing the reaction away for later.

“Now is good for me.” Marco smiles. “Jean?”

“U-Um…yeah. Yes. Now is good.” Jean’s flush increases from Eren’s stroking and honeyed voice. The wizard sits up and Eren sadly releases him so Jean can move to sit on his knees and fidget. “Do I, uh, have to do anything? How exactly does this go?”

“Ain’t too complicated. I give you a present, say some things, you say some things.” Eren stretches as he rises, and Marco yawns while copying Jean’s sitting pose. Eren pops his back with a groan before crawling to the edge of the bed and grabbing at the floor for the little beaded bag he put there earlier. “It’s all about the intent.”

And what an intent it is. To sign your life to someone else, become joined in every way possible as your separate paths in life become entwined. Werewolves never have witnesses present when mates are claimed, but every mated wolf Eren has ever met treats the event as one of the most wonderful moments of their lives. It seemed even grander than how his mother talked about marrying his father, even though their wedding had so much flourish to it. There’s no ceremony, no special garments, no real requirements aside from a few base instructions.

Pulling up the bag his grandfather in Oklahoma had crafted for him, Eren can feel that same reverence apply to this moment despite the fact all three of them have absolutely horrid bed hair and rumpled clothes. He wouldn’t want this any other way.

Eren turns around and crosses his legs, bag in his lap, and sighs happily. He grabs for their hands—which are offered with no resistance—to press soft kisses to them and to enjoy the feel of their skin.

“I love you both,” Eren breathes. “Marco, baby, without you, I don’t know what I’d be like. We’ve both been through a lot of shit…so I can’t imagine having anyone else by my side for any shit that comes next.” Marco’s lips tremble, thumb slipping to caress Eren’s cheek as he presses another kiss to it. Eren tilts his head to level with Jean, bringing his paler hand forward to nuzzle with affection.

“We don’t have that history. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like your stupid face. I watched you go from another rich jackass to someone who might actually be okay to be seen in public with.”

“I feel so loved.” And Jean does. It comes out a lot drier than intended, but the flush enveloping Jean’s face tells all.

“You’ve been stickin’ with us long after you could have run off back to your life. I haven’t learned near enough about you yet and I’m lookin’ forward to findin’ out the rest.”

With a final soft kiss pressed to Jean’s palm, Eren drops their hands and reaches into the bag. He withdraws a braided bracelet. The ribbons are multicolored, clashing a bit with pinks and blues and off-whites and reds and yellows, some fading in and out in their color from age or overuse. The braid ends in a knot with the ends of the ribbons hanging limp, some frayed and stained.

Eren holds the bracelet up, a fleeting pang of grief stabbing his chest, before offering it to Jean. “These were my mom’s. She tied her hair with them every day.”

To anyone else, this gift is absolutely worthless. Old ribbons from a dead woman mean nothing.

But Jean takes it and feels the silky material gingerly with the greatest care he can muster. These belonged to Eren’s family. These were part of his childhood, way back when in a house that stands in ruins still held happy memories.

Jean slips them on and warmth spreads in his chest when they fit his wrist perfectly.

Eren gives his attention to Marco next, taking a deep breath before holding up his gift.

Marco’s heart skips a beat. The memory of cold metal against his hand, of Eren’s grieving face from the view of a coffin— It overtakes Marco for a moment and he isn’t sure what to say.

“Eren…your key—”

Eren halts him by holding up his hand, interrupting before Marco can dare refuse his offering. “I’ve had this ever since I was bitten. I’ve held onto it and kept it safe, even though it’s a big reminder of the worst day of my life.” Eren gently lays the key in Marco’s hand, closing his fingers over it. “I don’t wanna think about that anymore. I’d rather think about all the good things you’ve done for me.”

Marco grips the key tighter. The history of the object doesn’t escape him. This key was the last thing Eren ever got from his family. He wore this key religiously through years of starving, suffering, and loathing. He wore it the day they met. He gave it away the day of Marco’s funeral. He wore it all summer with pride at the little extra details Marco added for good luck.

And here Eren is, giving such a large part of himself over with sincerity. Marco catches his lip trembling before he can help it.

Jean is the one, ultimately, who points it out. “…are you crying?”

“No! I’m just really touched!” Marco sniffs and wipes at his eyes before they dare to water.

“You’re crying.”

Eren gives a halfhearted laugh and takes Marco’s hand. “Marco, baby, I still have vows; don’t tear up on us now—”

“You’re both awful!” Marco whines. Two warm bodies press against him in retaliation and the key falls into the blankets as all three of them become one large tangle of limbs. Eren worms his way closer to wrap himself around Jean and Marco as best he can, the both of them only giving a mild noise when he begins pressing light kisses to their cheeks. Marco’s groan turns into a laugh and Jean’s protests die when his cheeks burn bright pink at every loud  _smack_.

“I only have to do one more thing, and then I can spoil you all night.” Eren’s voice is dark in their ears, laced with a promise that leaves their knees weak. “Okay?”

Jean and Marco both nod.

Eren presses one final kiss, this one to Marco’s shoulder, before sitting up a bit straighter. He flicks Jean in the ear and says, “Laugh at this and you don’t get to have fun tonight.” Jean, in an alarmingly immature fashion, sticks his tongue out.

Eren’s next words are much softer. Soft, in that deep growl of his that makes Jean’s and Marco’s heart flip with every word.

“I vow that yours is the name in my howl, which I use to guide myself in long nights. Yours are the eyes that calm me when I wake and will hold my smile.”

Jean feels Eren’s fingers softly stroking along his throat again, words washing over him and sending utter calm through his veins.

“I promise you the spoils of my hunt, only the finest cuts, and the first sips from my drink. I promise you my living and dying, my entire being and all its emotions.”

Fingers intertwine with Marco’s, squeezing tight.

“I vow that our grievances are ours to share, and ours to fix together. These are my solemn promises to you, my mates, my bonded souls. With these words, I hand my very self to you. We are equals with one spirit.”

Eren’s eyes are closed by the time he finishes, Jean and Marco following as they allow his words and their meaning to wrap around them. There is no large change, no expectation for a swell of  _something_  to accompany his promises, but…

There is a light, happy glow that settles in them.

At least until Marco opens his eyes and lets out a little giggle.

“That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Eren’s eyes shoot open next. “Oh, fuck you! That’s how everyone does it!”

Jean is the last to stir, fiddling with his new bracelet as he lazily smiles. “I heard Nanaba got to kick Mike to the ground. Why didn’t we get that?”

Eren shoves them both off of him and sends them tumbling into the blankets. “I can’t believe I just swore myself to you two. You’re terrible. I take it all back.”

Marco manages to reach back and grab Eren by the shirt for a hard tug that brings him down alongside them. “No, you’re stuck with us now.”

Eren makes a noise that seems torn between a laugh and a groan, fighting against his captor before Jean rolls on top of him to hold him down.

The key clatters to the floor, momentarily forgotten. A shirt follows just a few minutes later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #35: Eren parades the fact he got laid the next day. Jean is mortified but the rest of the house could give less of a shit
> 
> COMMENTS make a happy author, visits to the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) keep me alive and well, And my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) is always teeming with info/shitposts for all to enjoy. 
> 
> Don't forget to check out the newest playlist [ALL SAINTS DAY](http://8tracks.com/shingekicorn/bootleggers-all-saints-day)


	36. The Gates: or: St. Louis Cemetery No. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven nights seven moons seven gates seven tombs. Seven chances to go inside, seven steps to take. But before you start your journey, a keeper you must face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD it has been a while. I had hoped to stick to real time publishing but the spring semester has put me so far behind it's ridiculous. There are a bunch of chapters already done and just awaiting editing though, so don't worry about that. I've also begun the steps for a new JEM project that's in the works and coming soon! Praetorian, a royalty JEM au that will be about five chapters long. It's approaching the halfway finished point already and is in the editing stages before chapter 1 goes live. 
> 
> BONUS CONTENT TIME: 
> 
> The second official Bootleggers playlist is [HERE](http://8tracks.com/shingekicorn/bootleggers-all-saints-day) so take a listen 
> 
> and
> 
> Today is a double update! Today's chapter comes bundled with an extra that was originally going to be the next chapter, but I've cut it due to flow issues. 
> 
> Enjoy [a morning in the life of Mabel Bodt](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/post/141430900588/the-escapee-or-a-day-in-the-life-of-mabel-bodt-a)

 

 

 

_December 25 th_

Ilse Langnar is known by many to simply be a delivery girl who gives the French Quarter the blocks of ice they need for their iceboxes. Every day on the dot she appears with a block between her comically large tongs, pants soaked with water from bumping her legs against the ice, and wishes her customers a happy day before moving on to the next house.

To anyone worth knowing, Ilse Langnar is also the owner of the largest voodoo supply shop  _in_  the French Quarter. No matter the item, no matter how obscure, she has it. Her inventory is kept watertight in meticulously penned notebooks and her sense of business is stern but fair. She serves both the religious priests and priestesses of her craft and those who practice crafts of more mystical nature. She does her business hidden behind a bookshelf in a family café, nestled in the basement under the studio of an artist unaware his building even  _has_  a basement.

The police, ever happy to toe the line of the law if it means hurting the  _other_  kind, still have no clue who she is or what she does. And that makes her a very important person.

To Marco, she is simply cousin Ilse. His father’s sister’s daughter. Her mother remained devout in the voodoo traditions of the Bodt family and _his_  mother didn’t take too kindly to it, so Ilse herself has been very… _come and go_ in his life.

The last he saw of her, come to think of it, was at his funeral. Ilse hadn’t lingered long before moving on and that was that.

Now, on Christmas Day, 1920, she stands before him (still in trousers, even though she isn’t working) in the middle of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. A fact that leaves Marco unsettled and feeling sickly. His distaste for graveyards has not waned in the five years since he was buried. The tombs bring back a familiarity that leaves him sick to his stomach. As a child, he had wondered what the insides were like. He had wondered how many coffins could fit in them before something needed to be done. He wondered if the dead ever spoke to each other since no one would hear.

Now, he tries not to think about them too hard.

“You know the Gates of Guinee, right?”

Marco startles at her sudden question. He thinks back to his lessons over the years, his grandmother’s voice trickling in from memory.

“They’re gates to the Afterworld. In the cemeteries.”

“Good.” Ilse nods. She knocks against the door to a tomb, jerking her thumb toward it for good measure. “The gates themselves are located in tombs. Each gate has its own guardian and each gate is in its own cemetery. There are seven total.”

Marco nods along. He knows this. He hasn’t had to use this information in years, but with each sentence, the lesson his grandmother gave comes back.

“And there are seven nights where accessing the gates is at its easiest. A common phrase to go with the legend is, ‘Seven nights seven moons—’”

“Seven gates seven tombs,” Marco finishes. It clicks in his own head, finally, and he feels ashamed he didn’t immediately remember. Gramma Bodt had uttered it  _constantly_  when he was young. The legend of the Gates of Guinee was intertwined with the history of New Orleans itself. “I… I don’t—”

Ilse sighs and kicks a chunk of upturned concrete away. “Mabel said you didn’t remember a lot. You must have seen too much.”

Marco feels like kicking something too. Something larger and able to do damage with the frustration over  _not knowing_. “Too much of  _what_?”

“Possibilities. Lives. Part of being what we are is being aware that…we aren’t the only versions of ourselves out there.” Ilse shrugs. “It comes with being a revenant.”

The meaning of the word makes the air so much colder. Marco knows it. He’s read it over Armin’s shoulder as they poured over books together. He’s memorized its meaning with the sickening realization it defined his “life,” or whatever it’s supposed to be after dying.

A revenant. A person who returns from the dead.

“But revenants are only a little part in all this. You know the story Gramma told, the one about the family history?”

Marco knows this as well.

The story was not a happy one. Their Gramma’s own grandmother had been a maid in the wealthier households. There had been a guest, a handsome man with a tongue that crafted golden lies, and before he vanished from town, he managed to sire a son. The poor woman he left behind had to raise the boy herself.

Ma never liked when Gramma told that story; she said those things were better left unmentioned. Too common and not worth the attention since no justice was ever served. Gramma said that was why she wouldn’t let the story die.

“The man from that story was a real piece of work. Necromancer. Had a little responsibility and decided to pass it on to someone else so he could leave town and never deal with it again.”

“Necromancy?  _That’s_ what’s wrong with me?”

“No, shut up and listen.” Ilse manages to nearly pull that look Mabel gets when someone says something stupid, breath rising into the air as she huffs. “We’re revenants because our family took over the work that white bastard left behind. He didn’t even understand what he was working with. The Gates of Guinee are better left to people who understand them.”

“Those gates are for spirits,” Marco says the words with finality. The gates are sacred things. Gramma had drilled that into his head, and that belief was repeated by every priest and priestess he had ever spoken with. These gates, these secret doorways to the after, are not meant to be fooled with by mortal hands. Even seasoned practitioners are only given  _hints_  about which graveyards hold the gates.

Ilse doesn’t care for his tone and it shows with how flippantly she rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but a gate is a gate. And an open gate where people aren’t supposed to go is a gate that needs someone standing guard so no one does anything stupid.”

Marco knows the gates are important, they always have been with the secrecy gifted to them, but the anticipation in his chest is becoming uncomfortable. He can hear the remnants of that dark voice telling him to stop and listen; this is  _his_  life now.

“I—”

“And those gates  _really_  need it right now. I mean, did you see the newspapers this year?”

“About Rod Reiss winning the election? Yeah. No one’s happy.” Truthfully, Marco hasn’t looked at the paper in a good while. Christa had begun to tear up any papers that mentioned her father, throwing them into the fireplace with no regard for if Erwin had even had a chance to read it yet. If Marco wasn’t used to Eren reacting the same with his own family, he may have been upset at being out of the loop for so long.

But Ilse tries once again to give him the patent Mabel Bodt stare of stupidity.

“Not  _that_. The spiritualism craze. People are demanding they contact the dead and breach the laws of mortality while our new mayor is debating  _banning_  our own practice on the grounds it’s not a real religion. Thomas Edison is trying to make a telephone that calls the dead! Some jackass in Boston is writing about nightmare monsters and it’s  _selling_! On Halloween, someone got past my dogs and now their blood is everywhere because they got dragged into the After!”

Marco purses his lips together. He knows about that. The news spread across the city briefly—it was entertainment to the upper class and a genuine spike of fear for everyone else. A bloody mess with no remains means now they have to question if it’s safe to visit their own loved ones. His grandmother is buried in one of these cemeteries—half the Bodt family is—and his mother cancelled a holiday visit to bring flowers out of fear her children would be the next stain on the concrete.

The weight of what Ilse has told him presses down hard, turning the crispness of the winter air into something too sharp for his liking.

And so Ilse stares him down, hands out of her pockets and fingers twitching against her pants. “Marco, I’m not asking you to jump in. I’m not even telling you you gotta join me at all. But at the rate things are going, I’m giving you an order.”

A glint of light from the tip of her finger adds to the dawning reveal Ilse brought them here for a very good reason.

She’s tied to these grounds in every way possible, and if he tries to run, she can easily drag him back. This should terrify him. This should bring back the blood curdling fear he felt on Halloween when the bullet tore through his skull and ended him.

But as things are, Marco remains hypnotized as Ilse tilts her chin at him with a challenge. And despite his fear, he knows he’s going to rise to it.

“Start learning more about what you are, and start fast.”

 

_January 5 th_

Twelfth Night is a day that holds no national importance. Counting from the holidays makes the fifth of January the twelfth day after Christmas, and as such marks the Feast of the Epiphany. In the rest of the country, this day is unimportant, unknown, and never given a second thought. But in New Orleans, it holds certain significance.

In New Orleans, Twelfth Night is a day of celebration for the Mardi Gras season. Somewhere in the city, a krewe is holding some sort of extravagant party. King cakes are cut and the next hosts of balls are chosen.

To voodoo practitioners, Twelfth Night is also one of the only nights where opening the Gates of Guinee is at its easiest.

Marco Bodt sits in a car, parked outside one of the many cemeteries of Canal Street, contemplating the next step of his life and if he should do anything about it.

“So…these gates. How bad would it be if you just left them alone?” Eren taps his thumb against the steering wheel, fidgeting as he eyes his mate. Marco hunches his shoulders and clenches his fists as he stares resolutely at the dashboard.

“It would be fine until someone tries to open them.” Marco licks his lips—chapped from the cold air—and sighs. “You can only do it one way. You have to open them in order, with the right offerings, and do it without offending the guardians, which are different at every gate. And the thing is, no one knows exactly where each gate is or what order they’re in.”

“…and what happens if they get it wrong?” Jean asks from the backseat.

“You unleash dangerous things. You get dragged into Guinee, body and soul.” Marco closes his eyes and takes a moment to simply breathe.

“So, Hell,” Jean guesses.

“Not Hell. Just an in-between area,” Marco clarifies. He opens his eyes and rubs at the one he hasn’t covered with a patch yet. “People try to open the gates to go there, but failing means you never come back.”

Eren whistles. Jean doesn’t reply. The quiet that always seems to accompany cemeteries creeps into the car like a shadow, twisting its fingers into them all and slowly turning them cold.

“…so, will doing this help?” Eren’s voice is small. Marco turns to him, Eren’s eyes immediately finding his discolored one, and the werewolf reaches out to take his hand. “Will all this stuff actually help you?”

Marco can offer the smallest of smiles.

“I don’t know. But I think… I think I’d rather know what to expect, so I never have to be that scared again. I don’t want another Halloween happening. I don’t want Mabel to shoulder things without telling me. I don’t want to worry you.”

“We’ll worry about you regardless,” Jean adds from the back. “Eren and I are going to be up all night worrying about you running around graveyards.”

Marco allows a humorless laugh to escape, but it crackles and dies in the air.

“So are you going to go?” Jean leans forward and allows his arms to go over the seat to hug Marco’s neck, offering an encouraging squeeze. Eren squeezes Marco’s hand tighter.

Marco looks from them to the cemetery gate outside. And he crushes the lump of fear in his chest that’s been swallowing him whole at the very idea of approaching this part of his life.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m going.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (CONTINUE ON TO [BONUS CHAPTER](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/post/141430900588/the-escapee-or-a-day-in-the-life-of-mabel-bodt-a) )
> 
> Bootleggers bonus fact #36: The gatekeepers of the Bodt family all have an animal with which they are associated and use for their jobs. Mabel has crows. Ilse has dogs. Gramma Bodt had cats. Marco, unknowingly, has snakes. He has yet to notice that his beloved pet Tina is really his own familiar. 
> 
> COMMENTS keep me alive through all my work, looking at the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) will give you sneak peaks at my new project Praetorian, and my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) is open for everyone to hear my 2 AM ramblings.


	37. The Attic: or: Skeletons in the Closet Don’t Stay Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kirschstein family legacy was once a proud thing. Jean doesn't remember when anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Hate. Spring. Semester. Between being snotty and frequent weather changes, I've been getting hit with lethargy like it's a truck and everyone is swamped in work. 
> 
> Not that it'll stop me from posting. Lord, no. 
> 
> BONUS CONTENT TIME:  
> [GETTING IT](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/post/141815613583/getting-it-a-bootleggers-extra-modern), a modern Bootleggers extra about Eren and Jean
> 
> AND WHOA, WHAT'S THIS? A NEW FIC? Damn diddly right! Chapter 1 of my newest erejeanmarco fic,  
> [PRAETORIAN](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6663085/chapters/15238624), goes live today. I'd really appreciate if you'd check it out since I've put a LOT of work into it.

 

 

Magic has a special sort of energy.

Anyone can tell you that if they’ve spent even the smallest amount of time studying the craft. It’s a thrum in the deepest core of yourself, an electric current that runs through all your limbs and sets your soul aflame with an adrenaline rush that sends you higher than heaven. Jean takes a special sort of solace in that feeling. He always has. Even in the darkest parts of his adolescence, when he decided acting human was more important than being himself, he could at least relax in the comfort of his room and search for that special technique that would make the graphite in his notebooks come alive.

When Pixis was his teacher, he was able to play openly. Pixis encouraged his student’s exploration; he allowed Jean to throw as much energy as he could at his objective and followed him into marveling at the results. As eccentric as the man was, Jean couldn’t deny his instruction was eons better than the by-the-book methods his father had employed before work kept him too busy to teach Jean himself.

Since graduating high school, Jean has had to teach himself. Pixis was let go, rather abruptly at that, the prohibition was put in place, and Jean’s father began a silent house rule of never bringing up the Kirschstein legacy and what that would entail with the new order of things.

Jean finds he can’t ignore it as easily as his family can. Not when every step deeper into the city resounds with the electric hum of  _possibility_. His new wand stays tucked in his coat pocket and his fingers itch to use it every which way. He can even feel it in the air—the pulse of the city itself that beats with an energy begging to be harnessed. Some say New Orleans was built on mystical land and Jean can truly believe that claim when he feels the mana of the city in every heartbeat.

Even tucked away in the lavish Garden District he can feel it. Beyond the gardens surrounding his house, beyond the decorated homes, he can feel a tug that all but physically pulls him toward whatever well of power is waiting in the center of the city. But he resists. He doesn’t follow.

Jean merely focuses on that potential and works from his desk as he always has.

There’s a sketch of Eren Jean’s been working on for a few weeks now that he’s been using as a focal point. The sketch itself is simple. It’s Eren, arm perched on the windowsill above Marco’s bed, gazing out with that wistful look he gets when he’s daydreaming. He’s shirtless and wearing the comforter over his lower half in a tangled mess. Jean had lovingly committed the scene to memory and spent hours getting all the details just right.

But when Jean attempted to give it limited movement, Eren did as Eren does, and Jean has a sketch that keeps trying to wave at him or to shed the only thing covering his body. Jean, for the life of him, can’t figure out how this damn thing has gained so much will to  _move_.

This is the project Jean distracts himself with as he waits in his bedroom for company to arrive. His parents are out, the household staff is only at half capacity, and Hitch is blessedly distracted studying for a dentistry test. Jean figures now is as good a time as ever to raid the Kirschstein secret library.

He hasn’t been waiting long, an hour at the most, shading in some details under the eyes when a hand suddenly slaps itself down on top of his shoulder and Jean drops his pencil.

“Hey, baby, surprised?” Eren’s voice is husky next to his ear and Jean shivers. His hand is pressing down on a particularly deep bite mark on his shoulder and Jean can feel heat pooling in his stomach from the sensation.

He waves Eren’s hand off and turns around. Marco is waiting at the doorway, shuffling his feet awkwardly and offering a small wave.

“Did you use the front door?”

“No. Parked a block away and came in through the back like you asked.” Eren rolls his eyes.

“Did anyone see you?”

“Don’t think so.”

Jean groans. “Not good enough.”

Eren leans down and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Stop worryin’. Thought I fucked all that outta you—”

Jean shoves him away and clamps a hand down over his mouth.

“Shhh! Don’t! The maids hear everything!”

“They will if you keep yelling,” Marco mutters.

“I’m serious. They know everything that goes on in this damn house and I don’t know what they tell people.” Jean cranes his head to look past Marco, checking the doorway for a lurker who may report back to his parents. “It’s bad enough I even _have_  you here.”

“Your parents must be  _lovely_  people then.” Eren’s voice sounds a bit bitterer than intended and guilt begins to fester in Jean’s chest.

“It’s not…” Jean starts. “It’s just— They care too much about what the neighbors will say. I—”

“S’fine.” Eren waves it off. It isn’t fine. Jean knows it isn’t fine—just the idea of it isn’t fine—but Eren changes the subject and that’s the end of the conversation. “So what’re we raiding today?”

Jean wants to press on and wipe that look off of Eren’s face, but he doesn’t. He tucks away his drawing into a folder and stands up.

“The attic. It’s where we keep the good books.”

Marco steps aside for him and the three begin the walk into the deeper parts of the house. Jean sweeps for maids with every step and hopes none are upstairs at the moment. He finds none and to quell the anxious feeling beneath his skin, he does what he does best.

He babbles.

“We used to have them in an actual library. All the material we’ve gotten through generations of wizardry. It was something to be proud of, something we took a lot of pride in.” Jean can’t keep out how tired he sounds at that last part, sighing when they reach the narrow door that gives way to the steps upstairs. “But then my dad moved them all up here. I’m not supposed to mention we have them.”

Marco’s voice cuts through the cramped stairwell, full of confusion. “The prohibition only bans the  _sale_  of mystic items. Just owning books shouldn’t be a problem.”

Jean sours, and his next words drip from a tongue laced in venom. “It wasn’t the prohibition.”

Marco doesn’t reply. The point is understood, even if left unsaid.

The attic of the Kirschstein home is only slightly less lavish than the rest of the house. Jean supposes the previous owners of the house turned it into a spare room before clearing out. Dust pervades every surface and boxes stacked higher than all three of the boys litter random corners. An empty bed frame is host to a pile of winter coats and shoes. A sewing dummy stands by the window wearing a garish bonnet and a crayon smiley face.

The bookshelves in the corner are completely empty.

Jean’s heart falls and dissolves in his stomach.

When the hell had this happened?

“No, no, no, no—” Jean trips over his own two feet, navigating through the mess to grasp at the bare shelves. “This isn’t— He can’t, our family  _wrote_  these books— They’re our—”

Ripping tape makes him snap his neck in his hurry to turn around, still grabbing at the shelf even as he sends a look of manic confusion towards Eren. The werewolf is ripping apart the tape on one of the boxes in complete nonchalance.

Marco looks over his shoulder as Eren reaches inside when the flaps are open. Eren takes out a leather-bound book. Jean knows that book. That’s the basic guide to illusions he spent the good part of a year memorizing.

“Thought I smelled them,” Eren wrinkles his nose. “This whole place reeks like book binding.”

Jean can only blink. He looks at Eren. He looks at the empty shelves. He looks at the endless amount of boxes. He looks at the writing on the box in Eren’s hand.

_To Burn_

Jean’s mouth is extremely dry when he gives the order to open every box.

Their work is silent, compared to how they normally chatter. Box after box after box is ripped open. Jean finds family albums, spell books, research notes, birth certificates— All of it is dragged to the center of the room. He’ll shrink them. That’s what he’ll do. Shrink them and have Marco and Eren take them back to Erwin’s. Armin would be more than happy to house all this in his library.

“There’re at least ten volumes of Merlin-era spell work in this box. Why the hell is your old man tryin’ to get rid of this?” Eren hefts up another box and deposits it in the growing pile with a grunt. “This shit’s priceless. Son of a bitch doesn’t know how to take care of nice things.”

Jean can only make a vague noise of agreement as he sets aside a box that has his great-grandmother’s research on Glamour spells.

Marco rips open a box across the room and stops with a loud, “Uh…”

A beat passes before he slowly continues.

“Hey, Jean…”

“Yeah?”

“Is your family Jewish?”

Jean opens his mouth to answer and stops.

He doesn’t remember his family  _ever_ talking about religion, to be honest. It always struck him as odd since they lived in an area that was so fanatical.

Surely they would have mentioned something like that. They probably weren’t. They celebrated Christmas after all. His school was church based.

“…why do you ask?”

“There’s a menorah in this box with your name on it.”

Jean stands up at that. Eren is peering over curiously and Jean stumbles over tattered boxes before steadying himself against Marco’s shoulder.

Inside the box is a silver menorah, all right. Dirty and in need of a good polishing. Marco taps at the base and Jean squints to read the engraved print.

_Jean Orson Sébastien Kirschstein II_

Jean is Jean Orson Sébastien Kirschstein  _III_. This was his father’s.

For a minute, his mind is both blank and filled with a million questions. Empty space slowly becoming bedlam with endless, sick curiosity. Why is his father hiding this? Does his mother know? How long has this been stowed away? Why hasn’t Jean ever been told about it? Why is this packed away with the books? Why is  _anything_  packed?

How many other things have been shoved under the rug?

“Jean?” Marco lays a gentle hand on his shoulder as Jean’s knuckles turn white around the dirty silver. Eren gently pries his fingers away and sets the offending object back in the box. Jean allows him to. His muscles clench and begin quivering under the stress of his thoughts.

“Pack it all. I’m not letting him cover this up.”

“Jean, baby—” Eren starts.

“Just do it. I’ll find a box so I can shrink these. Just— Make sure you get it all.”

He’s furious, on one hand. His family is packing away their history, a history he’s dedicated himself to, and then he finds there’s even  _more_ hidden. How much of themselves have they stripped away?

He can feel Eren and Marco worry—he can feel Marco’s other hand coming up to hold him, to soothe him—but in the end he’s too numb for it.

He gets up to find a box. He needs to wrap this all up before his parents come home. He needs to get Eren and Marco out of the neighborhood before anyone notices anything. He needs to find an empty room to scream in.

Then he has to figure out how to share a dinner table with someone who’s content to hide every part of his family’s identity.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact#37: Years later, as the boys relax in the home they deserve but do not yet occupy, the contents of Jean's attic will decorate shelves and have the love they are due as pieces of family history. 
> 
> Don't forget to COMMENT, and check out [PRAETORIAN](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6663085/chapters/15238624) if you like royalty, crushes, dark Marco, and flustered Jean. Hell, even if those aren't your things stop by. Do it. Do it do it do it do it doitdoitdoit


	38. The Dream: or: Born By Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like a phoenix, she rises from the ashes anew. Unseen, the scars of her old self lurk beneath her new skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY...YEAH. SO. IT'S BEEN A WHILE. Summer classes and work got me and my editor HARD and productivity on anything was pretty low for a while. But I guess that's to be expected with math classes. Now I'm in a much more chill Western Civ course and things should be slowing down back to a comfortable pace. 
> 
> NOTE: on my blog I've begun production on the next side project that'll hopefully kick off this fall, an erejeanmarco [SUPERHERO AU](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com/tagged/superhero_au)
> 
> Also don't forget about my summer ejm fic, [PRAETORIAN](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6663085)

 

 

Annie’s world ended in fire.

That’s how she remembers it, anyway.

Fire had been a constant for her. From a young age, her eyes were filled with amazing things. Before she realized crystals were essential to give her direction, her eyes were filled with the twinkling lights of things to come in such dazzling displays she could never hope to describe with her limited vocabulary. But with those amazing things came just as many bad things. Awful things. For every innovation the future promised, fire would take its place. The end of a war was met with fire upon the innocent and flesh melting off the bone. Social revolution was countered by corpses in trees with sneering men dousing them in fluid and torches. Progress in technology meant fire would come compacted into barrels of more dangerous guns.

It drove her crazy then, and it drives her crazy now.

They were sparing at first. Barely blips in the information constantly pouring into her mind. But the fire grew larger, as fires tend to, until most of what she saw was a burning hell-scape so hot Annie could feel it sear her skin through her dreams.

Fire, death, destruction, and endless conflict were what greeted her when her gift felt the need to grace her with its presence. Annie may have gotten better, may have healed from the mental scarring her own mind felt the need to grant her, if it hadn’t been for the night the fire came for her in her own home.

Annie’s world ended when the citizens of her small town finally had enough of the smaller witch and burned her house down as the moon looked down upon them all in judgment. Annie’s world ended when her father pressed a flimsy cardboard suitcase in her hands and told her to run. It ended as she ran for dear life into the woods and cried as she lied to herself her father was following behind her and they would be safe after everything cleared up.

Annie’s world ended in fire, and she was left to sort everything out covered in the ashes. Quite literally. Annie still bore the ashes of her home on her cheeks by the time she had been shuffled to New Orleans. There was no real system for children like her. She didn’t have anyone who would wash her up and soothe her pain over losing her home and family. She only had herself and the vague directions of a few adults to the nearest children’s home. She felt the numbness of loss hold her heart in its hands and she had no one to tell her it was okay to _feel_.

It’s different now. She has a lot of people. She has a family that makes it clear those things are okay. She has Erwin, who picked her up off the streets and brought her into his home. She has Reiner and Bertholdt, who have been her closest companions from the day they stumbled in still smelling like the docks. In a weird way she has Levi, who despite claiming he doesn’t even  _like_  kids, still serves as the most motherly figure in the house.

She has Eren, who she’s told things she otherwise would never dare to speak out loud.

By all means, she has everything she ever wanted.

But that does not stop her from feeling so alone. Even when the dreams of fire recede back to being barely noticeable dots in the endless stream of fortunes.

In January, 1921, Annie dreams of fire for the first time in a decade. Her immediate response is to bury her scream in her pillow so no one will come running.

She shivers, freezing despite how warm Erwin keeps the house, and feels tears escape into her pillow as the last remnants of her dreams swim in her eyes. With a tremble of her hand, a crystal on her nightstand comes to life with a soft glow and bathes her room in light. Pictures of her childhood post-Erwin stare at her. Trinkets and knick-knacks tucked among her crystals cast long shadows that feel too similar to the demons of her visions. Annie sits up, gathers one of her heavier blankets around her, and grabs the crystal before wrenching open the door.

The soft rugs cover her steps. Her crystal casts momentary spotlights on paintings and family photos, the happy faces of years gone by turning into sickening jeers. Annie tightens her hold on her blanket as she descends the stairs and makes her way to the kitchen. She’s done this enough over the years that she has it down to a science. When Erwin first brought her home, she wandered more than she slept; she found the silence of the house at night comforting.

The eerie calm of the middle of the night is so soothing to the constant noise inside her head. The voices of her dreams, all layered on top of each other like a manic crowd, all blur together only to fade away into the infinite silence the night has to offer. For once she has room to think.

Usually she slips into the kitchen for a drink before attempting any kind of sleep again. Tonight she startles as she enters the kitchen only to find someone already there.

Eren doesn’t even pause in his chewing. There’s a sandwich on a plate and Annie can see the mess that always results when Eren makes his own food all over the counter.

“You had one of those dreams, didn’t you?”

Eren doesn’t bother to look back at her. He always seems to know when she’s there without looking. Annie clenches her jaw and looks away.

“You wouldn’t even know if it was.”

“I’ve heard enough about them.”

And he has. The bad dreams stopped a few years before Eren ever came to live at the house, but Annie’s told him what they’re like. In whispers in soiled sheets, with hands softly stroking each other’s cheeks. A corner of Annie’s mind hisses at her for daring to open up to him about them. But another corner, one without such a harsh voice…it tells her it’s _good_  he knows.

It means for the first time ever, she has someone to talk to about what she’s seen.

Annie sits down next to Eren and puts her crystal on the table. He doesn’t press her to start talking and moves on to the next half of his sandwich with nonchalance.

“You were in it.” Eren hums at that around a mouthful of bread. “You were hurt, I think. There was blood everywhere. I couldn’t tell whose.” Annie tightens her hold on her blanket as she goes over the images in her head. “I think the sky was bleeding.”

“Didn’t know the sky had blood.”

Annie glares and Eren shrinks his shoulders. “Sorry. Continue.”

“The city was practically upside down. Fire everywhere. Screaming, dying…and whispering.”

“What were they saying?”

Annie closes her mouth. She doesn’t like to think about the whispers. They’ve followed her for years with their taunts.

“Annie, what did they say?”

Annie doesn’t want to tell him. She didn’t tell him before because she _hates_  them so much. She hates them and what they say. She hates how much control they have over her.

She hates the way Eren is looking at her just as much. When Eren cares, he cares to a level that unnerves her. She isn’t used to so much concern all from one person. His stare is unblinking, the last few bites of his food forgotten, and she can feel a hole practically burning into her head.

“They like to tell me all my sins, for one. Things I’ve done. Things I’ve done in places I’ve never been. Thoughts I’ve had.”

“You can’t have guilt over shit you haven’t actually done.”

“I know. That doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty.”

Eren does that thing he always does when she says things like this. He breathes out through his nose, a huff that makes her feel like she’s said something stupid, and he leans over to wrap his arms around her in a smothering bear hug. Annie never knows what to do when he does things like this. She just allows him to cling and awkwardly holds her own limbs still.

“You don’t _have_  to feel guilty,” Eren mumbles into her shoulder. “Dumbass. You got a house full of people who love you. Not just me. You can open up and we’ll be there.”

A dark part of her mind whispers it’s a lie. Eren’s simply blinded because he found a relationship elsewhere. He’s happier without her and forgot what a drain she is.

“And don’t start that shit where you think I’m lying.”

The dark part chokes on its own words.

Annie can’t help but squirm.

She feels like they’re thirteen again. Hidden away under the Christmas tree in Eren’s first year at the house, having that whispered conversation that finally let them get to know each other. The conversation where Annie said, “I’m not lying. They won’t leave you. They really do want to keep you.”

He’s come so far since then. The Eren she knew back then wouldn’t dare touch her. He wouldn’t have late night conversations with anyone. He wouldn’t ever be so open. The Eren she knows now does all that and so much more.

She’s jealous. She’s still stuck where she was when they were children. She hasn’t grown at all.

“…what does it feel like to be where you are?”

Eren hums. He’s yet to release his hold on her and Annie doubts he’s going to let go anytime soon. That’s how he is. That’s who he became when he started shedding all the bad parts of himself.

“I’m not gonna fib and say I’m happy all the time and everything is rainbows. But…it’s better. It’s better than rollin’ in self-pity. It’s better bein’ able to go to people when I’m upset.”

“And your boys?”

She can feel Eren smile through the blanket around her shoulders.

“They’re the best thing about it all. No better therapy than smotherin’ someone in love and gettin’ smothered back.”

It’s cheesy as hell, but again: that’s Eren.

The version of Eren from her dreams, the one screaming as fire consumes the world, fades away a bit as the real Eren tightens his grip on her. The real Eren smells like Marco’s incense and has a hold that’s strong but soft.

“Do you wanna sleep on the couch? I’ll stay if you do.”

She really shouldn’t.

But she nods.

Leeching off him and his bleeding heart is probably the least of her sins anyway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #38: Annie's visions are a form of divine punishment, a once dull gem being given a shine that shines too brightly and blinds her in pain. 
> 
> COMMENTS make for an extremely happy author...as does any and all visits to [PRAETORIAN](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6663085) come on guys the chapters are super long and I worked really hard on it


	39. The Late Night: or: The Vengeful Princess of New Orleans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A princess is kind. A princess is understanding. A princess holds her anger in her chest until such time arrives that she can destroy her enemies with her manicured nails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOOO it's been a bit, hasn't it. I've written myself into a corner in this fic but you'll be happy to know I'm getting myself out and the only thing putting me behind is a case of executive dysfunction that prohibits me from putting the words down. But I'm sure I'll get over it since the school year has started again. (COLLEGE SOPHOMORE, WOOOO) 
> 
> Also, my other JEM fic [PRAETORIAN](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6663085) has recently had an update and I would SUPER DUPER appreciate you guys checking it out and leaving comments since it took me most of the summer to write the latest chapter

 

 

Sometime about halfway into January, Eren begins moving massive amounts of pillows and blankets into Marco’s studio.

It’s comfortable and horribly warm, but also strange. Around the same time, everyone in the house begins giving Eren a wide berth and avoiding staying in the same room as the wolf. Even Levi begins taking his tea away from the kitchen in the mornings when his adopted son makes his way to the table. Mikasa takes to staring at her brother with a furrow of the brow and one hand on a pocketknife. On the nights Jean can manage to stay over, he becomes horribly confused and curious over the situation as he watches the avoidance acrobatics taken by everyone in the house.

Thankfully his confusion is spared by a sleepy Ymir, who seems to be about five seconds away from falling asleep face first in her oatmeal. Her tired explanation of Eren becoming “a homicidal rage machine” this time of year just doesn’t seem to register. If anything, Eren is  _unbearably_  clingy. By the time they get into February, Eren can’t go more than a few minutes without nuzzling and softly biting at any exposed skin left at his disposal.

But again: massive amounts of pillows and blankets. Jean withstands Eren hooking his limbs like a sloth if only because now Marco’s bed feels like a toasty cloud.

That, and… _other_  reasons. Very naked and nice reasons.

Jean can’t stay over as much as he’d like, anyway. He has to go home and listen to his father plan a summer schedule for him at the company, lie to his mother about how things are with Hitch, and do homework for classes he’s already falling behind in. But he stays when he can. He enjoys the nights where all three of them can curl up in a pile of limbs. Sometimes Marco goes out at night to meet his cousin in the cemeteries, and Jean and Eren keep the bed warm for his return.

Those nights are slightly less pleasant.

Eren distracts him as best he can.

Then there is the night Jean wakes when the sun has yet to rise, and Eren is wiggling against his back impatiently. Jean’s eyes flutter open and he groans with the notice it is still inky black outside. His muscles groan in complaint at the mere idea of moving—everything is so  _sore_. He wants to turn and smack Eren for roughing him up this badly, but he doubts it would have any effect on the wolf.

Eren presses a kiss to the nape of Jean’s neck and speaks in a sleepy drawl.

“Marco’s comin’ back.”

Jean can’t hear anything. He doesn’t doubt Eren’s ears, but his college student instincts insist on strangling Eren for waking him up when Marco isn’t even there yet. Eren wiggles again and Jean musters up just enough strength to jab him with his elbow. Eren retaliates by biting him. Jean can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine, and Eren grins in apparent victory.

The door finally opens a minute later and Marco’s tired form all but collapses in the doorway.

“Welcome back,” Eren greets.

Marco startles, not expecting them to be awake, but he smiles through a yawn and kicks off his boots. Jean briefly exposes himself to the cold to make room and Marco shucks his pants as he climbs under the covers and melts into the mattress. Jean cringes at the chill stuck to Marco’s skin but presses himself close anyway. On his other side, Eren scoots closer so his chest is lined with Jean’s back.

Marco melts into it all and exhales on a loud groan.

“Rough night?” Eren asks.

Marco’s nose wrinkles. Jean can see it from the moonlight and feels an aching sort of fondness in his chest.

“Found more blood in one of the cemeteries. Not as much as Halloween, but…” Marco makes a little shrugging motion. “Ilse took care of it. Greek fire. Burned it right out of the stone.”

Jean hears the words, he knows what they mean, but he also can see the little unsaid things in Marco’s face. The tension in Marco’s muscles screams when he refuses to. Jean burrows in closer and wraps his arm around Marco’s torso before pressing a chaste kiss to his shoulder.

“You’re trying as best you can.”

“’S’not enough.” Marco’s eyes close when Jean pulls his hand back to gently caress his cheek. “We had to clean up someone’s blood. Mabel chewed me out because some spook got as far as her house. Ilse’s runnin’ on the tops of tombs and I’ve tripped over busted concrete so many times my knees feel like they’re falling off.”

Eren pops up and presses his head into the open gap between Jean’s neck and shoulder. “You’re learning. Give yourself time. It’s a process. I still howl at sirens and Jean still can’t say ‘syrup’ right.”

Marco giggles. It’s that light little laughter that sounds like the most pure thing in the world, and the little crinkle in his freckles is more than enough to induce fluttery love butterflies.

Jean presses a small kiss to Marco’s throat and wishes for that little laugh to never go away.

“ _Mon ange_ , you’re doing fine.”

“If you say so…”

“I know so.” Jean makes his voice as firm as he can with sleep tinting the edges of his consciousness. Marco nods and finally begins to really relax into the bed, Eren throwing one arm over Jean to complete the cuddle pile they’ve built up.

It’s so comfortable he could puke, really.

Marco settles into sleep easily enough, and now that both his mates are present, Eren’s soft snores fill the studio soon after. Jean allows his eyes to slowly shut and sleep takes him again peacefully.

He wishes Marco wouldn’t worry so much.

Marco can’t prevent everything. Surely a few missteps don’t mean the end of the world.

 

 

Frieda Reiss was raised in the lap of luxury.

She was spoiled and she admits it. Not in the sense she was entitled, or mean, or intentionally thought of others as beneath her. She was spoiled in the sense her world was polished to perfection. Her room had the best dolls money could buy and her nannies were screened to make sure they were the best in the country. Her snacks were prepared by chefs who studied in culinary Meccas. Her clothes were ordered from cities that sat on the front end of fashion. She wanted for nothing.

This did not mean her family was perfect.

God, no. Her family was just as broken as all the others who allowed their status to dictate their lives. From the time she was small, she could tell her parents’ marriage was barely holding together and her siblings always seemed to dangle on that careful line of becoming as vapid and shallow as rich children could be. But if there was one thing to be said about Frieda, it was she was an optimist.

Where another child might act in outrage at finding their illegitimate sibling, Frieda found love and reached out her hand. Where another child might break under the strain of being groomed to be paraded around by their parents, Frieda found poise and excelled. Every challenge delivered to her in her gilded cage made her stronger.

Until the day the cage collapsed on itself.

Frieda Reiss was killed in the lap of luxury with the shredded remains of a chair cushion serving as her halo.

Frieda Reiss lost the last bit of her angelic patience and came back barely holding on to the fury settled deep within her bones.

She lost everything. She lost her chance at a finer education. She lost the opportunities she had to see the world and to make something of herself. She lost her mother. She lost her siblings. She lost her status as a person. What love her father had for her was lost as well when he realized she had come out of it all changed. A man aiming to own the city couldn’t afford to have a beast for a child.

She didn’t break. Not then. Not through her exile to Uncle Uri’s estate in Baton Rouge. Not through watching the only relative who felt sympathy for her waste away to illness. Not through losing her home  _again_  because  _Frieda Reiss is dead_ and no one was around to prevent Uncle Uri’s house from being sold. She held her head high and turned her boiling blood to a light simmer.

But then she came back to New Orleans.

And she saw her baby sister with a smile as empty as the dolls that used to line her shelves.

That is when Frieda Reiss broke.

Rod can mistreat Frieda all he wants. He can groom her into a puppet, throw her away, and deny her existence until the cows come home—but touching Historia is the  _fucking_ line.

The few people she encounters walking the street at night all but jump out of her way. Between the scars that mark her as a monster and the hatred in her eyes, she knows she must look some sort of frightening. She doesn’t pay them any attention, though. She has something she needs to do. Something that has been burning inside her ever since her death certificate was signed.

The building she’s looking for isn’t too terribly important. It’s not old or historically relevant. But this building, which had once been a butcher’s shop, had served as a fundamental point during Rod’s campaign for mayor. It served as the hive for his political career beforehand and his slow rise to the top. All of the choices that led to his victory were made here. It still houses the offices for a good majority of his staff and holds the records for his precious personal projects. This building is where Rod Reiss would vanish to in those last days of their family and this building holds more of his affection than his daughters ever did.

Hidden beneath her coat are the supplies she’s spent precious time accumulating. Late nights bent over old chemistry books and magic guides alike. Despite all her personal touches, she doesn’t leave a trace of their magical origins on them. The last thing she wants is her father using this as an example to hurt innocent people. After living as an outcast for a decade, she understands why the poor would send her dirty looks during forays into town.

Everything about her father and the work he does is  _vile_.

There’s a crow watching her as she works. It caws in curiosity but doesn’t move from its perch on a car mirror; it only watches her with a tilt of the head as she places her own little projects where she wants. She breaks a window with a rock and tosses a few more into the depths of the building. No one is around to notice but the bird.

It leaves its perch when Frieda backs away. She calculates a safe distance, worms her way into the protected alleyway between two older buildings across the street, and gives her final regards before fishing a little palm sized box from her coat pocket.

“Happy Mardi Gras, you conceited son of a bitch.”

The crow caws. Frieda presses the little switch on the box.

The building, which had remained as silent as a tomb all night, explodes in a shower of light and fire.

Greek Fire as a bomb would have been too noticeable. Easily linked back to the merlin population. Too dangerous, since it’s practically uncontrollable and burns  _anything_. But _essence_ of Greek fire, as a fine powder to serve as starter alongside the little fire charm carved into each bomb, is  _perfect._  No one will find any traces of it buried under the ashes of the building and the fire itself will stay as a normal flame.

And through that all, she’s destroyed something dear Daddy worked hard for.

Frieda pockets the switch and makes a note to take it apart later. For now, she should go home.

The pups have a nature hike tomorrow, after all, and as their faithful new teacher, she can’t stand the thought of making them late.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #39: Frieda Reiss could be considered the catalyst for events that change New Orleans itself within the coming year. 
> 
> Don't forget about [PRAETORIAN](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6663085) which has just updated and is awaiting your attention if you like morality discussions and sexual tension. Also Mabel is there. With a girlfriend. 
> 
> COMMENTS are the only payment I get for this work, and visits to the [WRITING BLOG](http://shingekicornwrites.tumblr.com) gives you glimpses of all the extra goodies I can't fit on ao3, and my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/Shingekicorn) is shitposting hot and fresh for the new school year.

**Author's Note:**

> Bootleggers bonus fact #1: Levi's sense of temperature is so off he can withstand the intense heat of the south while barely breaking a sweat. A talent usually only shared by native Texans. 
> 
> Hopefully I can update this fic on a once-a-week schedule since I already have the next 3 chapters awaiting editing. 
> 
> Be sure to kudos and comment! List what you liked, disliked, like to see more OF-all your wisdom will go towards improving this fic for future installments.


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